
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.' 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



v > 



POEMS. 



POEMS: 



WILLIAM PARKINSON, SI. A. 

II 

Rector of Zangenhoe, Essex; 

And late Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge. 




LONDON : 
BELL AND DALDY, 186, FLEET STEEET. 

CAMBRIDGE : DEIGHTON, BELL AND CO. 

COLCHESTER : ESSEX AND WEST SUFFOLK GAZETTE OFFICE. 

185 6. 






)« 



SI 



ERRATA. 



Page 58, line 9, read — 

" That the Lord "Warden breathes for us no more.' 
Page 42, line 1, read ; — " We hail thee, blessed morn." 
Page 56, line 10 — For Belvior read Befooir, 
Page 143, line 9, dele " these:' 



-TRS^ 



POEMS, 



CHILDHOOD. 

There is a point on which I bend my eye, 

A far -off memory — 
And shadows close around it, and in vain 

Into the hanging mists my eyeballs strain — 
A break amid a consecrated grove, 
What time the vagrant winds the branches move, 
An island in the sea 
Of Infancy, 
When consciousness first dawned, and heaven first spoke 
of love. 



2 CHILDHOOD. 

O, wondrous change of being from the dreams 
Of that first sleep to waken and behold 
The day with glorious beams 

Gilding the mountains old — 
To hear the clear- voic'd birds their carol sweet 

Unto the spring repeat, 
While on the daisied fields the young lambs frisk and 

bleat, 
To pry into the shady nooks for unknown flowers, 

Or in the oaken bowers, 
Where the lone stock- dove keeps 

Her watch the livelong hours, 
And sings, and broods, and sleeps. 

Where now the birds that sung 

When we were young ? 
Where now the merriment 
Which Nature lent 
To everything that moved, or breathed, or flew ? 
The violet tipt with dew, 
The verdure ever new, 
The hawthorn spray with Spring's warm tears besprent r 



CHILDHOOD. 3 

How sweetly then the lark heaven's azure arch up- 

clomb, 
How envied we his song and boundless power to roam. 

The restless sense of power, the thought untamed, 
The wish to do, without the chilling dread 

Which disappointment keen, 

In after years, has shed 
Over th' aspiring mind, and all its efforts maimed — 
The dream -born hopes which, like a bird on wing, 
Traverse the air, and sky, and bid the Spring 
Welcome from shore to shore, and never know 

That there are storms below, 
And spoiler's hand or Winter's gloom, 
Nor the cold silence of the tomb, 
Nor mourner's sigh and tears when all is o'er — 

The wish to pry into the secret haunts 
Of all things beautiful, 
And thence to cull 
New thoughts and images to soothe the wants 
Of the caged spirit yearning for the range 



4 CHILDHOOD. 

Of the wild world, and liberty, and change — 
Thoughts, such as these, come to us, wafted nigh 
Upon the incense -breathing winds of memory. 

And now — O, say not that the night is come 

And cold oblivion — 
Upon the sea-shore all alone 
I meditate — the earth is dumb, 
And idly stands that isolated stone, 
But high in heaven the joyous lark is singing 
His tuneful censer to the day-god swinging : 

While far and near the wave, 

O'er shingle or in cave, 
Breathes as from myriad lips its thrilling antiphone. 

I see the billows raise their crested heads, 

Far as the ocean spreads ; 
They tire not of their play, they grow not old, 

Like flowers upon the meads 
Wrought by the weird Sun's alchemy to gold. 

Why should the spirit faint 
In sueh a scene, 



CHILDHOOD. 5 

Or idly pant, 
Heedless of present joys, for things that once have been? 
For life is like the ocean, to the shore 
Of dull satiety, 
Joy after joy pursuing, 
Yet others still renewing 
Fraught with a higher aim, fuller of Deity. 

From height to height we journey on, 
As he who up a rugged steep, 

O'er beetling crag and treacherous stone, 
Is forced with faltering step to creep, 
Nor lingers till a resting place, 
In some safe cavern's kind embrace, 

He gains, where wind nor tempest rude 

Breaks in upon his solitude ; 
Then turns him round to scan 
The vale below, his ancient home- 
Where he was satisfied to roam 

Before his wanderings began. 
And then, perchance, as light and shade 
Lend a new charm to field and glade, 



6 CHILDHOOD. 

He thinks that he had happier been 
In that secure and beauteous scene. 

So we, beholding from afar 
Our early days, when thought was free, 

And the soul like a beamless star 
Shed the light of its own simplicity 

On every thing it heard, or felt, or saw, 
And own'd no law, 
Save reverence and love, its course to guide ; 
What marvel, if sometimes we dreain 
In those calm regions to abide, 
Were happier lot than with the stream 

Of life to combat, though its wave 

And the rude winds that round us rave 
Promise rewards congenial to pride. 



MY STRAWBERRY. 

We planted it in autumn, and nurs'd it through the 

snow, 
And now it seem'd to wither, and now it seem'd to 

grow : 
And when the keen March winds blew with a dismal 

sound 
Over the leafless woods, over the barren ground, 
Not a vestige or a token in my garden could I see 
But a few dry withered leaves of my poor strawberry. 
But when the Spring arose, with its warmth and gentle 

showers, 
And from every sheltered nook peep'd forth the starry 

flowers, 
I rush'd into my garden, half wild with hope and fear, 
And lo ! three tiny leaves of tender green were there, 



MY STRAWBERRY. 

And others soon appeared, which day by day grew on, 
Fed by the gentle rain and the warm beams of the sun. 
Nor was it long before five blooms of purest white 
Danced on the darken' d leaves to my veiy great delight. 
They were so pure and fair that I grieved when, one by 

one, 
They changed from flower to fruit, as o'er a beauty 

gone. 
But the fruit began to ripen, and I thought that, by 

and by, 
On my birth-day I might gather a ripe strawberry ; 
But that blackbird came whose song we were praising 

yesterday, 
And when the fruit was nearly ripe carried it all away : 
So whistle as he will, to the best of my belief, 
That wicked blackbird is no better than a thief. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 

'Twas morning, and the clear blue sky 
Through the thin misty clouds was seen, 

And on the grass-plot dreamily 

The shadows fell with light between, 

So beautiful, I longed to go 

And pace the fresh earth to and fro. 

Upon the lawn, the gossamer 

Was spread, with dew-drops spangled o'er, 
And when the light winds made a stir, 

Among the box-trees by the door, 
The silver beads but shone more bright 
Amid the ever-varying light. 

I thought it hard to stay at home, 
With copy-book before me spread, 

Tracing great M — , inglorious doom, 
When the bright day so richly shed 



10 PROSE AND POETRY. 

Its splendours, and from herb and tree 
There came a voice of liberty. 

One hieroglyphic I had framed — 
A horrid scrawl, that gave me pain ; 

And, of my first attempt ashamed, 
I scarcely dared to try again, 

Or break the charm with figures rude 
Of morning's sweet inquietude. 

I heard a step upon the grass, 

I turned and saw a kind good man 

Approaching, whom the world, alas ! 
Will see no more — his life's brief span 

Shorn of its fulness, in the prime 

Of strength cut off before his time. 

But then he came, and with his hand — 
His kind broad hand — he strok'd my head, 

And spoke mild words, as if he scann'd 
The web of grief around me spread, 

And then, O joy, he begged for me 

His comrade on the heath to be. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 11 

Nor did my good Aunt Anne refuse 

To let me go ; so with good will 
We started, and the morn's fair hues 

Were imaged in my heart, that still 
Treasures its boyish feeling free, 
The grateful sense of liberty. 

How brightly shone the summer sky, 

How richly glanced the insect's wing, 
How softly calm the wild dove's sigh, 

Amid the oak trees round the spring ; 
And what a world of talk had we 
About the plover on the lea ! 

O happy days of innocence ! 

O home of friends remember' d yet 
With gratitude and reverence, 

And some with sorrow and regret ! 
Such tribute as we owe the good 

Who soothed our childhood's varying mood, 
And gently lured the wayward will 
Up the stern heights of Zion's holy hill. 



TO MY LITTLE DAUGHTER. 

Loveliest of earth-born flowers, 
Nothing in this world of ours, 
With its fickle gleams and showers, 

Can compare with thee. 
What were water lily pale, 
Sweeter lily of the vale, 
Snowdrop bending to the gale, 

If compared with thee ? 

What were morning's earliest streak 
When the day begins to break 
To the rose upon thy cheek ? 

What the rosebud's hue ? 
What the azure of the sky, 
Ringdove's neck or Tyrian dye, 
To the azure of thine eye ? 

What the violet's blue ? 



TO MY LITTLE DAUGHTER. 13 

Brow more white than driven snow, 

Lips that rival Cupid's bow, 

Cheeks where sweet smiles come and go, 

Taper neck and fair, — 
And for that coy, sportive glee, 
The eloquence of infancy, 
Who shall find a gem with thee 
Worthy to compare ? 



TO THE SAME. 

Georgy, little idle maid, 
I begin to be afraid 
All thy eloquence will be 
Wrapt, as now, in mystery ; 
Nothing able to conceal, 
Nothing deigning to reveal, 
Of the precious stores that lie 
In the soul's transparency — 



14 TO THE SAME. 

Truth and sweet simplicity, 
Innocence and purity. 
Gentle and affectionate, 
Smiles and tears thy bidding wait ; 
Or, should aught thy spirit move, 
Passion soon gives way to love, 
And forgiving smiles are nigh 
Ere the angry tears are dry. 
What a joyous laugh hast thou, 
Ringing wild, I know not how, 
After playful chase at last 
Caught, and borne away in haste. 
Oh ! 'tis sweet to see thee stand 
Pointing, with that tiny hand, 
To the lark, that makes the sky 
Ring with his rich melody ; 
Looking back, with thoughtful eye, 
Long, long time inquiringly. 
What a mine of thought lies hid 
Underneath each snowy lid : 
With a voiceless eloquence, 
With a silent influence, 



TO THE SAME. 15 

With a half- seen mystery, 

And expressive mimicry, 

Archly, coyly everything 

To the mind's eye imaging, — ■ 

Little want of words hast thou, 

They are written on thy brow ; 

Do but look, or sign, or stir, 

Need we no interpreter. 

Therefore, little bird, sing on, 

In that gentle undertone, 

With Mama, Papa, Baby, 

Ringing changes in thy glee : 

While the magic lustre plays 

On thy pretty little ways, 

And the smiles upon thy face 

Have a meaning and a grace 

Brighter than the sunbeam thrown 

O'er the rose, ere the dews are gone,— 

In that arch simplicity 

Hobecl as now for ever be, 



A CHILD'S REQUEST. 

ik Don't shut out the flowers/ 

Let them vigil keep 
Through the balmy hours 

Of my noon-day sleep : 
Let the wind's soft wing, 

Flitting round the room. 
O'er my slumber fling 

Freshness and perfume. 

Like a weary bee, 

After its sweet toil, 
Let it come to me 

Bringing all its spoil — 
Spoil of half-blown rose, 

Spoil of eglantine, 
Nectarous dew that flows 

From the sweet woodbine. 



a child's request. 17 

From the clover balls, 

From the far bean-field, 
From the coronals 

Which the jasmine shield, 
From the od'rous chime 

Of the lily bells, 
And the feathery lime 

With its honeyed cells ; 

Let it make its nest 

Gently by my side, 
Like a welcome guest 

That may long abide, 
Bringing memories 

Of the Summer hours, — 
Swift the Summer flies, 

" Don't shut out the flowers !" 



THE ANSWER. 

Swift flies the Summer with its radiant hues away — 
We cannot check its flight ; enjoy it while you may . 
Soon falls the fragrant flower, soon fades the tender leaf ; 
Not ours to grudge th' enjoyment of delights so brief. 
He who made all things good and glorious, not in vain 
In such effulgence robed the sea, the sky, the plain ; 
To joy in what He made, what is it but to lift 
The heart in thankfulness for His abundant gift, 
To look on earthly joys as types of those above, 
The earnest and the foretaste of eternal love ? 
Swift flies life's Summer with its innocence and glee, 
Its shadows giving place to stern reality. 
Full soon its rose will wither, its lily droop and fade, 
Its leaf unto the winds be scatter' d and decay'd. 
What shall bring back again the glory that is gone ? 
Who shall recall the joy whose little day is done ? 



THE ANSWER. 19 

Miserable they who seek for darkness in the light, 

And spread o'er life's bright arch untimely shades of 

night, 
Who happiness and hope would banish from the earth, 
Make dumb the voice of praise, and freeze the streams 

of mirth. 
Life has its wintry frown, life has its sunny hours — 
While Summer bids them bloom, we'll not " shut out 

the flowers." 



MY OWN DEAR HOME. 

I loye my own dear home, 

And wheresoe'er I be 
Its image seems to come 

With pleasant thoughts to me. 



I'm very happy here, 

My Mends are good and kind, 
And I love my Aunty dear, 

But my home is in my mind. 



The garden's full of flowers, 

And the birds from morn to night, 

Among the leafy bowers, 
The listening air delight. 



MY OWN DEAR HOME. 21 

But though the flowers more gay 

To others may appear, 
Or more sweet the wild bird's lay, 

They are not to me so dear. 



The summer breezes light 
Trip o'er the waving corn, 

And Summer dew-drops bright 
Fringe the eyelids of the morn< 



The mists above the stream 

Grudge their grey robes to fold, 

Till the joyous morning beam 
Tinges their skirts with gold. 



And the lark is in mid-air, 
And unseen sings to me : 

I hear him everywhere, 
But himself I cannot see. 



22 MY OWN DEAR HOME. 

I am very happy here, 

And if home -fed visions come, 
Forgive me, Aunty dear, 

For my home it is my home. 



TO A BABY. 



The first Spring flower, a speck of blue 
Amid the clouds, a bird, a bee, 

A heather bell, a drop of dew 
Bending the young grass silverly, 

A lamb upon a sunny hill — 

Though lovely, though art lovelier still. 



The lark that dares the trackless sky, 
The throstle on the hawthorn spray, 

The waterfall, the pine's low sigh, 
The nightingale at close of day — 

Though soft and musical to hear, 

I list not them when thou art near. 



TO A BABY. 23 



The stars and the wide firmament, 
The earth and ocean wave 

Of God are ever eloquent, 

Whose Word their being gave — 

Yet rather in that form of thine 

I recognize the work Divine. 



Thou hast a smile serene and bright, 
A sparkling and enquiring eye, 

That bathes thy downy cheek with light ; 
And though no gift of prophecy 

Be mine, upon that eloquent face 

High thoughts and deeds I seem to trace. 



But noble thoughts and deeds of power, 
The craving and the thirst for fame, 

Have toil and peril for their dower ; 
And he who woos a glorious name 

Will find his path by snares beset 

In lowlier ways he had not met 



24 TO A BABY. 

Shall we then, peerless child, for thee 
A humbler sphere and name desire, 

And cheat thee of thy destiny ? 

No, by that eye's proud glance of fire : 

Unto the brightest paths of fate 

Thy energies we consecrate. 



And ever to the King of Heaven 
Our voices we will raise, and pray 

That when thy bark is widely driven, 
And sin is nigh, and friends betray, 

He will the world's rude tempest still, 

And keep thee safe from every ill. 



TO THE SAME, ON HIS FIRST BIRTHDAY. 

Ye gentle gales that bear the Spring 
Over the earth with joyous wing, 
To Kercheval all blessings bring 

My pretty boy. 



TO THE SAME, ON HIS FIHST BIETHDAY. 25 

Ye balmy flowers that, steep' d in dew, 
With bright bells all the fields bestrew, 
The choicest blooms I ask of you 

To crown my boy. 



Ye birds that greet with cheerful lay 

The coming of delicious May, 

O sing your sweetest songs this day 

For my sweet boy. 



O would I were a bird to flee, 

Or a swift gale to visit thee, 

Or flower to share thy infant glee, 

My laughing boy. 



But now, though I am far away, 
Upon this happy ninth of May, 
Long years of happiness I pray 

For thee, my boy, 



TO A LITTLE GIRL. 

When Summer's smile was golden, on the earth and on 

the sea, 
I wandered forth to find a fit similitude for thee. 
I looked upon each starry flower, that nestled in the dell; 
I peered within each veined cup, each insect-haunted 

bell; 
I saw the fair narcissus, with its graceful head inclined ; 
I saw the frail Anemone her braided hair unbind ; 
I wondered at the dewy rose, that with the sunbeam 

played, 
And the lily of the vale, that hid her beauty in the shade : 
The hyacinth was lovely, in the hollows of the woods, 
And the harebell shed a charm along the dreamy 

solitudes ; 
And many other flowers there were, that glistened in 

the sun, 



TO A LITTLE GIRL. 27 

And were lovely in the morning light, or when the day 

was done ; 
And yet I could not one select, in garden, wood, or lea, 
That, in beauty and in grace, would bear comparison 

with thee. 
The rose upon thy cheek was far more eloquently bright, 
The lily on thy tiny hand more delicately white. 
Thine eyes, I cannot liken them to anything I know — 
The violet is not dark enough, the pansy wants their glow ; 
They glitter like an unknown gem, of ever-varying hue, 
An amethystine isle, girt round with a sea of palest blue. 
And all about thy rosy lips continually play 
Sweet smiles, like golden butterflies upon a sunny day. 
Georgina, little fairy maid, what a torment thou wilt be 
In after years to those who love, yet love despairingly. 
I fear that arch simplicity, and those coy smiles of thine, 
Will be a grief to many a heart that worships at thy 

shrine. 
Oh ! bright and joyous be thy path, and thornless be the 

flowers 
Which life shall cull to garland thee in woman's riper 

hours : 



28 TO A LITTLE GIRL. 

And never may those sweet smiles fade, or sorrow from 
thine eye 

The lustre steal, or rob thy cheek of its rich trans- 
parency. 



TO MY SISTER-IN-LAW, 

ON HER WEDDING-DAY. 

Accept, dear lady, though in uncouth dress, 

A brother's wishes for thy happiness : 

Would they might spread in breathless calm for thee 

The ruffled waves of life's tempestuous sea ; 

Throw o'er thy pathway ever-blooming flowers, 

And scents new- wafted from Elysian bowers. 

May every care, whose shadow dims the light 

That pours around thee beauty and delight, 

Be but a pale cloud on a sunny sky, 

Fading beneath the Zephyr's balmy sigh ; 



TO MY SISTER-IN-LAW. 29 

Or, like the forest shades, when Summer weaves 

His golden thread among the waving leaves. 

May every tear that dares thine eye to wet, 

Like dews that gem the purple violet, 

When the unclouded Sun in bright array 

Kisses the last tears of the morn away, 

Melt, 'neath the glow of love's serenest light, 

Into an exhalation of delight. 

May every soft breeze, lowly whispering, 

Calm and repose unto thy bosom bring : 

Thine be the joyance of the Summer flowers, 

Sooth' d by the moisture of awakening showers. 

Thine be the bright hopes of the buds in Spring, 

The skylark's path and unimprison'd wing, 

Morn's sunny smile upon the dimpled sea, — 

And all that thou hast wished, Sister, I wish for thee. 



TO A SNOWDROP ON THE 19th OF JANUARY. 

Why does the snowdrop brave 

The wrath of wintry winds, 
And does not rather save 

Her youth, till Summer's breath the frozen earth 
unbinds ? 



Say not, because alone 

She seemeth loveliest, 
When other flowers are none, 

Creeping forth uncompared she is a welcome guest. 



O vainly may we peer 

For beauty such as thine, 
Thou first-born of the year, 

Into the gaudy flowers that Summer bids to shine. „ 



TO A SNOWDROP. 31 

The many colour* d fields 

Which mid-May's warm embrace 
From storm and danger shields — 

O vainly ask of them the snowdrop's simple grace. 



The winds make fearful moan, 

No bird has dared to sing, 
Wherefore, then, thus alone 

Wakest thou from thy rest, sweet messenger of Spring? 



Noble the task, meek flower, 

That when the earth is bare, 
In cold and wintry hour, 

Thou comest to fulfil — Nature's sole comforter. 



The fertile Mother Earth 

Many a flower doth rear, 
But joy was at thy birth, 

For thou alone wast born her loneliness to cheer. 



32 TO A SNOWDROP. 

O snowdrop pure and fair 

How shall I welcome thee ? 
For desolate and bare 

But for thy coming would my winter be. 



Henceforth I will not chide 

Though storm and tempest fling 
Their arrows far and wide, 

For at thy birth they flee and Winter turns to Spring. 



But a wreath I will entwine 

Of welcome to the hour, 
That bade thee rise and shine, 

Sweet snowdrop of the heart when wintry tempests 
lower. 



TO THE 19th OF JANUARY. 

Sweet is the breath of Spring, 
When flowers are bright and gay, 

And soothingly the wing 

Of Zephyr moves amid the hawthorn spray ; 



But dearer far to me 

Is this stern Winter morn, 
That so tumultuously 

O'er rugged field and leafless wood is borne. 



Sweet is the skylark's song, 

When, hidden from the eye, 
He poureth, all day long, 

Stream upon stream of richest melody. 



34 TO THE NINETEENTH OF JANUaEY. 

But this cold, icy, wind 

Singeth a sweeter tune 
Than all the lays that find 

Utterance beneath the balmy skies of June. 



Bright is the dew-drop clear , 

"When, in the Summer sun, 
It gloweth, like the tear 

In beauty's eye that hath been smiled upon. 



And pleasant is the fall 

Of waters, and the hum, 
So soft and musical, 

Of bees that to the flowery banks at noon-tide come. 



Nor can we soon forget 

The throstle's evening song ; 
Or think^ without regret, 

On clustered roses the woodbine wreath among, 



TO THE NINETEENTH OF JANUARY. 35 

When everywhere was seen 

The leanness of Spring, 
When all the fields were green, 

And all the air was full of joyous welcoming. 



But now, when everywhere 

Is Winter, stern and cold, 
And not a wild-flower dare 

Its delicate eye-lids to the day unfold ; 



When every silver stream 

Is turbulent and full, 
So that one could not dream 

It e'er had flowed serene and beautiful : 



When not a song is heard 

Throughout the shrill-voiced woods, 
And here and there a bird 

Silent and sad upon our path intrudes : 



86 TO THE NINETEENTH OF JANUARY. 

Why do I love thee more, 

Thou dull and wintry day, 
Than all the bounteous store 

Of Spring-time glittering in the arms of May ? 



O many gifts hath Spring ; 

But thou to me hast given, 
Though borne on darksome wing, 

A boon more precious than aught under heaven : 



For in thy reign was born 

A sweet and beauteous flower, 
Which on the heart forlorn 

A gentle influence sheds, a spell of healing power. 



I HAD A DREAM. 

I had a dreara ; it was of one 

With silken hair and deep blue eyes, 
And smile as of a sunbeam thrown 
Over the woods from wild autumnal skies. 



She seemed a pitying angel sent, 
A beauteous minister of good, 
To whisper thoughts of high intent, 
And satisfy the soul with heavenly food. 



She show'd the mountain heights of fame, 

And bade me fearless rise and climb, 
And strive to chronicle my name 
Among the glittering stars that gem the vault of Time. 



60 I HAD A DREAM. 

She bade me leave the flowery way, 
Pass unrefresh'd the cups of ease, 
To labour give the weary day, 
Stem the fierce tide and brave the stormy seas. 



Alas ! this dull corporeal chain 

Too closely fetters me to earth : 
In vain the mind rebels, in vain 
Strives to fulfil the promise of its birth. 



The spirit soars a little way, 

Then droops its wing and sits forlorn— 
A child soon weary of its play — 
The clouding over of a bright Spring morn. 



Lady, that o'er my spirits' night 

Hast shed, from fountains bright and pure, 
A ray of intellectual light, 
A sense of beauty ever to endure, 



I HAD A DREAM. 39 



I thank thee for each lofty thought 

Which thou hast planted iu my soul, 
Each purer aspiration fraught 
With heavenly fire impatient of control. 



And ever, as thy natal morn 

Returns — though I am far away, 
And time and happier friends have drawn 
A veil over my name and humble lay ; 



When I am but as one unknown, 

What time the woods their glory wear, 

And Autumn's loveliest hues are strewn, — 

Of thee my thought, for thee shall be my prayer. 



EYES OF MYSTIC BLUE. 

Eyes of mystic blue hast thou, 
Speaking eyes and snowy brow ; 
Cheek that bears the soft impress 
Of the lily's loveliness ; 
Coral lip, whose very scorn " 
Beauteous is as Autumn morn, 
When the skies their glory wear- 
Glory half akin to fear. 
Yet thy smile is bright and free, 
Like the smile of infancy — 
Light which childhood's sun has thrown 
On the future's dread unknown. 
Slight thy form of fairy mould, 
Such as, in the days of old, 
Danced by moonlight on the green. 
A fairy ? Aye, the Fairy Queen. 



EYES OF XYSTIC BLUE. 41 

Yet there lurks within thine eye 

Such a thoughtful brilliancy ; 

And upon thy snowy brow 

Marks and lines of genius glow, 

That we half forget the grace 

Of thy peerless form and face : — 

Brighter jewel never yet 

Was more gloriously set. 

Lady, for thy natal day 

I have framed a feeble lay ; 

Yet the glory I can feel, 

Though unable to reveal, 

Of the mind, whose ardent power 

Is thy being's noblest dower. 

May no danger, fear or pain, 

On thy pathway leave a stain ; 

Brightest flowers be round thee spread, 

Noblest crowns adorn thy head ; 

Or, if harsher lot be thine, 

May the mighty hand Divine 

Be thy shield, and with His power 

Guard thee in the trying hour. 



TO THE 26th OF SEPTEMBER. 

We hail the blessed morn, 

That unto us hast given 
A radiance to adorn 

The clouds that griefs cold winds over our life have 
driven. 



Thou burstest, like the Spring, 

On "Winter's long delay, 
Chasing, with golden wing, 

The terror -peopled glooms that overspread his way. 



Like music, when the hum 

Of men is hush'd and still, 
And echoes faintly come 

Wafted upon the wings of night from every hill. 



TO THE TWENTY-SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER. 43 

Like streams through desert sand, 

Winning melodious way ; 
Or breezes that to land 

Bear the toss'd ship, and balk the billows of their prey. 



Thou tellest us that life 

Has not yet lost its smiles, 
Shining amid the strife 

Of care, like sunny rays on wave-encompass'd isles. 



Thou biddest hope return 

From her unseen abode, 
By some sepulchral urn, 

To pave with starry flowers life's rough and thorny road. 



At thy bright dawn she rose, 

And swift her rainbow wings 
She hasten' d to unclose, 

Awaken' d by the splendour that thy presence brings, 



44 TO THE TWENTY-SIXTH OF SEPTEMBER. 

Nor long did truth remain 

In her lone hiding-place, 
But sprung, without a stain, 

To cheer thee at the loved beginning of thy race. 



Virtue her chariot brought 

To speed thee on thy way, 
With many graces wrought, 

That shone like stars by night, like sunbeams in the day. 



Genius upon thee shed 

The brightness of her flame ; 
And "Wit, with wings outspread, 

Poured in her playful darts with an unerring aim. 



Love came with joyous mien, 

To greet with many smiles 
The coming of his Queen — 

The birthday of the blue-eyed beauty of the isles. 



THE DANCE. 

The lamps shone brightly, and the spell 

Of melody upon the ear 
"With eloquent enchantment fell, 

And feet were lightly bounding there- 
Delicate feet, whose airy tread 
A murmur, as of music, made. 



I gazed awhile, admiringly, 

Upon each lovely form that past, 
With glowing cheek, and sparkling eye. 
That seemed a radiance to cast 
Around it as of joy too pure 
A fleshly bondage to endure. 



46 THE DANCE, 

I gazed and sighed, for well I knew 

'Twas not for me, in language cold, 
The flowers of joy and mirth to strew, 
Or sparkling gems of wit to mould, 
Or weave the glittering thoughts that play 
Upon the lip when hearts are gay. 



And yet 'twas gladdening in each fair 
And open brow, each smile-lit face, 
No marks of dull and lingering care, 
No sign of aught but joy to trace — - 
The festive moments seemed to bring 
A blithe adieu to sorrowing. 



'Twas sweet to see the magic spell 

Of youth, and happiness, and mirth, 
Unlock the glowing streams that dwell 
Silently in the heart, when earth 
Has faded from the view, and still 
The soul thirsts for the invisible : 



THE DANCE. 47 



To see a high-aspiring mind 

From wisdom's airy height descend, 
And innocent enjoyment find 

In smiles, and such delights as lend 
To woman loveliness and power, 
E'en in her mind's less guarded hour. 



Whose is that joyous laugh, so full 

Of music and of happiness ? 
That radiant smile, too beautiful 
For dwellers in life's wilderness r 
The light step, and the form Divine : 
Whose, lily of the vale, but thine ? 



Yet have I known the time, when thought 

Has borne thy spirit far away, 

And eloquent expression wrought, 

Upon thy snowy brow, a ray 

Of genius, like the starry sheen, 

When winds are still, and skies serene. 



48 THE DANCE. 

I've seen a glance of that bright eye, 

That spoke of pure and secret springs, 
And spirit-kindled ecstacy, 
And radiant imaginings, 
As if the soul its bands had riven, 
And peer'd forth lovingly on heaven. 



The merry kindling of the eye, 

The playful brilliantness of wit, 
The satire wounding heatingly, 
The sparkling repartees that flit, 
Like meteor lights, whose airy road 
May not by duller minds be trod — 



These are thine own in festive bower, 

Nor could I watch thee thus, and dream 
That such an intellectual power 

Lay hid beneath the laughing stream, 
Which, like the waves of Hermus, roll'd, 
Unconsciously, o'er sands of gold. 



TO A LADY, ON HER WEDDING-DAY. 

Why ring ye, village bells, 

On this bright Summer mom ? 
What is the tale your music tells 
To Caunton's dewy fields and Beesthorpe Hall forlorn? 
" This is the wedding-day 
Of a lady young and fair, 
Whose future life we pray 
May pass unwet by tears, unruffled by a care." 



Why haste ye, happy children, why haste ye, 
With your dress so neat and trim, — a joyous sight to see? 
Those baskets Ml of flowers why bear ye with such pride 
Along the Church- ward path, and by the water-side ? 
" These flowers we strew 
In a fair bride's way, 
And that joys ever new 
May circle her path, we pray." 



50 TO A LADY, ON HEE WEDDING-DAY. 

Why weepest thou, poor widow, on thy worn hearth- 
stone, 

With thy head upon thy hand — desolate and alone ? 

The sun is shining, brightly, and the bride is young and 
fair, 

Go, bless her, with thy aged lips, and with thy patient 
prayer. 

" How can ye bid me eease to weep, when she is going 
away, 

Who hath been my kind support through age's dreary- 
way ? 

Yet shall the widow's prayer ascend before the Almighty's 
throne, 

That blessings may surround her path, and sorrow be 
unknown." 



I too, sweet lady, for thy clear blue eye, 

And thoughtfulness, whose mood becomes thee well ; 
For the deep mysteries of poesy, 

And dreams of olden time, whose mystic spell 



TO A LADY, ON HER WEDDING-DAY. 51 

This mid- day glare availeth not to break — 

I, too, for the rich treasures of thy mind, 
And purity of heart, my prayer will make 

To Him whose word controls the stormy wind : 
O, may He keep thee safe from every ill, 

From every woe, from every unseen fear ; 
Thy cup with happiness for ever fill, 

Give thee a calm and cloudless atmosphere. 
Safe may He lead thee through the tangled maze, 

Amid the rocks thy vessel calmly guide, 
In danger's hour a warning beacon raise, 

In time of need be ever at thy side ; 
So shall thy childhood's friends with less regret 

Part with thee on the threshold of thy home, 
And though, perchance, the lingering eye be wet, 

A holy calm shall o'er their spirit come. 



SONNETS, 

NO. I. NOTTINGHAM. 

I stood on Carlton Hill ; and at my feet 

A sea of houses spread, wave upon wave 

Irregularly heaving, — such as brave 

The angry winds, and after each defeat 

Rise emulous of each other. A thin sheet 

Of silver haze a mellow aspect gave 

To the rude outline, while, with hue more grave, 

Rose grey St. Mary's Tower, as if to meet 

Her children's love, a mother's warm embrace 

Tempering with reverential awe. Afar 

And higher still upon its rocky base 

The Castle piled its ruins — insular 

Amid the changeful sea — O dire disgrace 

To those who dared its symmetry to mar. 



53 



NO. II. THUEGARTOlSr. 

No outward pomp is here, or grand array 

Of city rich in lordly palaces : 

A scanty stream and those wide- spreading trees 

Are all that bid the traveller delay. 

But lo ! that lonely tower, how grey 

Its pointed arches and huge buttresses ! 

Of ancient glory faithful witnesses, 

Though hand in hand with ruin and decay. 

Yain is thy victory, Time, — the mind 

Rebuilds at will the stately Priory, 

Vocal with prayer, and sees the holy men 

Pacing the sacred coiu-ts with downward eye ; 

The vesper chaunt still lingers in the glen, 

And anthems load with melody the wind. 



NO. III.' — SOUTHWELL. 

O wondrous power of architecture !— fair 
Beyond expression those Cathedral towers, 
Wherein Religion her pure form embowers, 
Winning solemnity for praise and prayer. 



54 SONNETS. 

O glorious times, when men disdained to spare 
Their hoarded wealth, and e'en beyond their powers 
Built for God's honour. Purer faith is ours, 
And shall we in His service own less care 
And jealousy ? The neighbouring ruins tell 
The fate of man's most glorious abode : 
While in its beauty stands the House of God, 
Ruin's insatiate hand invisible 
With broken arches has the pathway strewn, 
And bound with ivy links the tottering stone. 



NO. IV. AVERHAM. 

There is a sound of waters in my ear, 

And the wide Trent comes foaming down the fall ; 

The dancing spray, with murmurs musical, 

Following far off along its swift career. 

Fretting the pebbly shore the wavelets near 

A group of elms, that round St. Michael's Wall 

Wave soothingly their leafy coronal, 

Save where the pinnacles their white shafts rear 



55 



Above the half-seen tower. The sweet voic'd bells 
Talk to the stream, and the stream answers them. 
Around are woody hills and groves, that stem 
The north wind's furious tide. If Quiet dwells 
In any earthly scene, man may not fail 
To find her in this calm, secluded vale. 



NO. V. NEWARK. 

Graceful is Newark spire, rising serene 
Above a family of common forms, 
Like an aspiring mind that, mid the storms 
Of life, wears ever an unconquer'd mien, 
Soaring aloft where others seek a screen. 
Yet is there grandeur in the cold grey stone 
Of those neglected ruins, that bemoan 
Their faded glory, reckless of the sheen 
Of the glad sunshine on the waters thrown. 
The stern embrasures the bright beam disown. 
Loving the twilight rather, or the stars' 
Deep sympathy, when their mild ray alone 
Rests on the broken arches, and unbars 
The past, and heals Time's memorable scars 



56 SONNETS. 

NO. VI.— YIEW FEOM DEPDALE HILL. 

Pause in thy swift career, thou Sunmier cloud, 

That I, at leisure, on thy depth of shade 

May ponder, while the landscape is array'd 

In alternating light and gloom, endowed 

With the pure gifts of beauty, such as flowed 

O'er Eden's bowers and the Earth newly made. 

The silvery Trent moves slowly down the glade. 

Above the distant town their airy shroud 

The smoke-wreaths hang. Afar are Belvior towers, 

The bright beam playing on them ; Lincoln stands 

Solemnly on the shade. The eye commands 

A multitude of villages, with bowers 

Of ancient trees. To me the breezes come 

From every side with whisperings of home. 



NO. VII. BIRKLAND. 

No sound but of the forest, no rude tone 
Jarring the ear : the fern with every breeze 
Quietly rustling— busy gnats that tease 
The loiterer — noise of flitting rooks — Caw on 



57 



Dark choristers — all is in unison. 

Ye mighty monitors, oracular trees, 

What tell ye of the past, what mysteries 

Of ancient lore ponder ye thus alone ? 

Your topmost boughs are withered, in the past 

Alone ye live : the moss is sad beneath, 

And at your feet more sadly waves the heath, 

But ye are firm and fearless to the last. 

let the old, the broken, and forlorn 

Come here and learn Time's threatenings to scorn. 



NO. VIII. BIRKLAND (ANOTHER PART). 

The scene is changed : the oaks are left behind 
With all their dark solemnity of shade. 
How different now the prospect of the glade ! 
Far off and near, by distance undefined, 
With every shape of beauty, every kind 
Of imagery by weird fancy made, 
In singular variety arrayed, 
The birch-trees wave their tresses in the wind. 



58 WALMER. 

How beautiful the whiteness of their bark ! 
How graceful every attitude ! Between 
What rich perspective ! Here and there is seen 
A worn oak stem, with branches gnarled and dark, 
Whose wounds with graceful tenderness they hide — 
Youth and old age by contrast beautified. 



WALMER. 

Sad are the streets of Deal : along the shore 
Flags half-mast high their solemn tidings tell 

That the Lord Warden breathes no more, 

His soul called hence in vaster realms to dwell. 



Fly through the land, sad news — swift be thy speed, 
As suits thy bitterness ; — there's not a heart 

Within the shores of England but will bleed, 

And thoughts too deep for tears pass through it like a 
dart. 



59 



Hide not thyself, O Walnier — thou no more 
In thy calm nook canst court obscurity ; 

Britannia's grief upon thy quiet shore 
A pyramid will raise, piercing futurity. 



Thou canst not hide from myriads yet unborn 
That England's noblest warrior in thine arms 

Breathed his last sigh, and on thy ear forlorn 

Whispered" the ethereal air life's restless wing becalms.' 



Time, that destroys the column and the tomb, 
And wastes the silent marble unperceived, 

Shall not beguile our spirits of their gloom, 

Mourning so great a loss, of such a man bereaved. 



Where'er Britannia's banner floats serene, 

Far as security and peace extend ; 
In populous city, and on village green, 

Tones of deep grief shall with proud memories blend. 



60 WALMEE. 

Who can forget, e'en in this honr of woe, 
How joyously, on Salamanca's plain, 

The tide of victory began to now, 

And notes of triumph swept across the main ? 



Who can forget ? lo ! the funereal car, 
Studded like night with stars of victory, 

Tells to the breathless thousands, near and far, 
" The name of Wellington shall never die." 



O lay him in the heart of his own land, 
And every vein of memory shall roll 

Our wavering thoughts back to him, and command 
A measure of his worth and noble self-control. 



CHRISTMAS, 1852. 

O wanderer oil life's rugged way, 
Compelled to toil from day to day, 
To sad despairing thoughts a prey, 

Come and look here : 
That Infant in a manger laid, 
A stable's roof His only shade, 
How does His peaceful smile upbraid 

Thy faithless fear ! 

O thou, whom Sorrow for her own 
Has mark'd, and Grief has overthrown 
Till Reason tottered on her throne, 

Thy loss compare 
With His, who left the realms above, 
Where peace abides and perfect love, 
Amid life's fiercest ills to prove 

What man can bear. 



62 CHRISTMAS. 

Thou, too, that on the bed of pain 
Tossest thy weary limbs in vain, 
Impatient of the galling chain, 

Be still and know 
That God in human form is here 
To heal the wound, to dry the tear, 
The aching heart to soothe and cheer, 

And share its woe. 

O free from sorrow and distress, 
Whom Pleasure woos, with false caress, 
To linger in life's wilderness, 

And there abide, 
Shall God's Eternal Son for thee 
Come robed in great humility, 
And thou in mask of vanity 

Thy features hide, 

Lest on thy soul the light Divine, 
Beaming from Truth's eternal shrine. 
Bid thee to happiness assign 
A wider scope 



CHRISTMAS. 63 

Than Time ean give, or circumstance 
Of how, and when, and where, enhance, 
In what must be, beyond all chance, 
Above all hope ? 

O tossed by passion's varying mood 

Lured on to ill, away from good, 

By thoughts that on the mind intrude 

With subtlety, 
Lo ! He who dwelt on earth to save 
Man's race from woe beyond the grave 
By His own loss, this lesson gave, 

Thyself deny. 

Thou, too, bowed down with shame and fear, 
Whose conscience says " The Judge is near. 
His righteous sentence thrills mine ear, 

What must I do ?" 
O come to Him who, on this morn, 
A Saviour was for sinners born ; 
Thy penitence He will not scorn , 

Nor bid thee go 



64 THE OLD YEAR, AXD THE NEW. 

Uncheer'd away. The bruised reed 
He will not break, but gently lead 
Thy steps where, through the smiling mead, 
Calm waters flow. 



THE OLD YEAR, AND THE NEW. 

Farewell to thee, Old Year, thy tide is ebbing fast, 
Thy mark is on the sand, thou art numbered with the 

past. 
What hast thou brought to land of the vessels launched 

on thee, 
In the golden light of hope, thou dark devouring sea r 
Wrecks, shells, and tangled weeds are scattered on thy 

shore, 
About an upturned keel the angry billows roar. 
But the good, the brave, the true, : — O whither are they 

goner 
The dark wave answers not, but sullenly rolls on. 



THE OLD YEAR, AND THE NEW. 65 

Down, down, down — to the fathomless past recede. 
Thou hast left thy mark behind, thy wrecks, and 

worthless weed : 
Heavily falls thy moan from afar on the listening ear, 
Dreary and dull the forms thy lessening billows wear ; 
Thou art gone to thy rest, Old Year, and thy pride and 

pomp are now 
But the splashing of the waves that neither ebb nor flow. 



Hark ! with a rippling sound, as of many voices sweet, 
Their rocky paths again the refluent waters greet ; 
Higher and higher swelling, wave upon wave they come, 
Grand with their towering crests, bright with their 

dancing foam. 
Thou, too, from the shadowy folds of the past that risest 

clear, 
With hope and promise crown'd, all hail to thee, glad 

New Year ! 
Joyous we'll launch our bark, and trust our hopes to 

thee, 
And gallantly breast thy waves, thou undiscovered sea, 



66 katie's wreath. 

Bringest thou loss or gain? Bringest thou weal or woe r 
Wrecks, or tangled weed ? It is not ours to know. 
God o'er the future reigns, the times are in His hand ; 
We will take, with grateful hearts, what comes at His 

command. 
But we do not greet thee less because hope comes link'd 

with fear : 
God in the future dwells. — All hail to thee, New Year. 



KATIE'S WREATH. 

Weave me a garland gay, my Katie's hair to bind, 

A wreath of lilac blooms, with hawthorn sprays entwined; 

Ere those innocent arch looks and merry smiles take 

wing, 
Weave me a wreath of flowers, to deck the brow of Spring. 
Where could we find a jewel proper for her to wear ? 
Where could we find a gem meet for her wavy hair ? 



katie's wreath. 67 

Not in the coral caves, not in the cavernous deeps ; 
Not in Pactolus' sand, not where the pearl-fish sleeps ; 
Not in the emerald beds, not in the diamond mine ; 
Not where the chrysolite or topaz and ruby shine : 
But where, upon the hedgerows, the bine-weed hangs 

its bloom, 
And the lanes are overflowing with the hawthorn's rich 

perfume, 
Where the primrose bank is golden, and cluster' d roses 

climb, 
And the wild bee gently murmurs beneath the feathery 

lime. 
No need to go far off for jewels rich and rare, 
And pearls and precious stones, to deck my Katie's hair, 
For the treasures of the garden and the field to her have 

lent 
A greater charm and more becoming ornament. 
Then weave a garland gay, my Katie's hair to bind, 
A wreath of lilac blooms, with hawthorn sprays entwined; 
Ere those innocent arch looks and merry smiles take 

wing, 
Weave me a wreath of flowers, to deck the brow of Spring. 



"GOOD NIGHT, SUN." 

Good night to thee, Sun, good night : 
When I lie on my little bed 

I dream of the joy thy light 

Over meadow and wood has shed. 



I'm weary with laughter and play, 

And I lie down my strength to restore : 

If there were no night to the day, 
Life a burden would be very sore. 



Dost thou go to bed, too, bright Sun ? 

O, where is the place of thy rest ? 
Dost thou joy when the long day is done. 

With the weight of thy glory oppress' d ? 



GOOD NIGHT, SUN. 69 

Dost thou dream of the beautiful things 

Thou hast seen in thy swift career ? 
Of the birds with their silver wings, 

And their voices sweet and clear ? 



Of the fields and broad-leaf d trees, 
Or the- cities where men abide ? 

Of the streams and glittering seas, 
Where the stately vessels glide ? 



Of the hearts that expand at thy smile, 
And the eyes by thy ray made bright : 

And the hands that their work beguile 
With the glow of thy genial light ? 



O, sweet be thy dreams, bright Sun, 
In the depths of thy sleep serene, 

The reward of a work well done, 
The reflection of glory seen. 



70 GOOD NIGHT, SUN. 

And when, with a conqueror's might, 
Thou hast spread thy banner brave 

O'er the ebbing tide of night 
And the dying moan of its wave, 



When the shadows and dreams are gone, 
From the chains of sleep set free, 

May I joy in the splendour thrown 
On river, and mead, and tree. 



TO SPRING. 

Oh, bright and beautiful is thy appearing, 

Fresh-scented Spring, nursling of April showers, 

Through tangled grass and woven hedgerow peering 
Into the dewy cups of opening flowers ! 



Beautiful child, that playest unreposing 
Upon the flowery lap of laughing May, 

With tiny hand the delicate buds unclosing, 
And gently sighing, " Why do ye delay ? " 



Oh, thou that gladdenest the world, unsealing 
With thy warm kisses each melodious throat, 

Oyer our solitary musings stealing 

Through the deep woodland on the wild bird's note. 



72 TO SPRING. 

Wooer of sweetest sounds, of young leaf stirring, 
Of endless murmurs from the honey' d bee, 

Of myriad flies and insects shrilly whirring, 
Or birds' soft twittering on every tree. 



Thou all -pervading spirit, gently leading 
Out of their wintry fold, the starry flowers, 

With balmy dews and treasured rain-drops, feeding 
Thy tender play -mates in their woven bowers. 



Art thou not into leafless violets breathing 
The languid odours that they feed upon ? 

Art thou not now fantastic chaplets wreathing, 
To shield the modest primrose from the Sun ? 



Art thou not in the waters when they glisten 
With the bright glory of the playful beam ? 

Do we not catch thy murmurs as we listen 
To the light cadence of yon tumbling stream ? 



TO SPRING. 73 

Art thou not heard in the mysterious sighing 
Of wind -borne spirits in the distant woods ? 

Do we not see thee as we wander prying 
Into the secrets of earth's solitudes ? 



Oh, flower-girt Queen, we pray thee by the flowing 
Of every rill that cools the meadows green, 

By the sweet drops of rain, and by the blowing 
Of every gale that stirs the hedgerow screen ; 



By the lone stock -dove's melancholy cooing, 
By the skylark's aerial minstrelsy, 

By the rich warble of the night-bird's wooing, 
By the low, dreamy murmur of the bee ; 



Look down with gentle eye upon the waving 
Of the young corn and freshly-budded trees, 

Breathe soothingly the woods and lone banks paving 
With primroses and frail anemones. 



74 TO A BUTTERFLY. 

Haste, and unfold thy beauty and thy treasures, 
Herb, blossom, leaf and flower awakening : 

Haste, and entwine thy wreath of purest pleasures ; 
We pant for thy bright presence — haste, O Spring ! 



TO A BUTTERFLY. 

O ! butterfly, bright butterfly, 

That flutterest with gladsome wing 
The cloudless sky, 
And sweet flowers welcoming, 



How joyous seems thy wanton way, 
As over field and hedgerow green 
With short delay 
Thou sailest, insect Queen ! 



TO A BUTTERFLY. 75 

A moment, on the sweet wild-rose, 
A moment, on the lush woodbine, 
Thy pinions close 
And sip the dewy wine, 



That I may near thee pause and view 
How Nature, skilled artificer ! 
With varied hue 
Has wrought thy garment rare. 



How is thy pinions' purple stream 
Studded all o'er with pearl and gold, 
Like stars whose beam 
Nights azure depths infold ! 



How is the amber interlaid 

With wealth of rainbow-painted lines, 
Whose silken braid 
Thy glossy form entwines ! 



76 TO A BUTTERFLY. 

O, say, does beauty come to thee 

From those bright flowers thou restest on, 
As timidly 
Thou hidest from the Sun ? 



Or, dost thou ask of sparkling dews 
The rich dreams of their sunlit sleep, 
In mingled hues 
Thy fairy form to steep ? 



Away ? — would I might fly with thee 
O'er flowery mead and silver stream, 
With such delight 
Thou floatest on the beam. 



Go, wanderer of sunny skies, 

Go, winged flower, just wafted here 
From Paradise, 
Our drooping hearts to cheer. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 77 

Go — but return again, that we 

May share the lightness of thy mirth, 
Who may not flee 
Beyond the cares of earth, 



THE NIGHTINGALE, 



Softly upon the budding leaves 

The rain-drops fall, 

While Nature weaves 
Her varied web our spirits to enthral* 



Sweetly beneath the hedgerow screen 

The violet blows, 

And, though unseen, 
Its delicate odour o'er the pathway throws, 



78 THE NIGHTINGALE. 

On stream and meadow, hill and woodland wild, 

New life is stealing, 

The influence mild 
Of genial warmth the scars of Winter healing. 



Melodious silence all the earth pervades, 

The winds are still 

Amid the glades, 
While creeps the sunbeam o'er the distant hill. 



Hush — what a note the mystic spell 

Of silence breaks ! 

How rich the swell 
That from the leaves the dews of slumber shakes. 



Upon the shore of consciousness 

The silver wave 

With soft impress 
Wakens the echoes tranc'd in memory's cave. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 79 

No thought of present things intrudes, 

No care, no fear : 

The hanging woods 
Fade from the sight, or grander forms uprear. 



The earth is no more earth ; the grass, 

The dewy flowers, 

Far, far surpass 
In loveliness the pride of Summer's brightest hours, 



That distant green on the hill-side 

Gains richer light, 

And shadows glide 
With grander pomp over the wooded height. 



It is thy song, delightful bird, 

That makes night day ; 

Thy voice is heard, 
And all things dark and drear take wing and flee away, 



80 THE NIGHTINGALE. 

We wander in ideal groves, 

Where Zephyr's wing 

More gently moves, 
And joys gush forth from a perpetual spring ; 



Where slopes the turf with softer green, 

And stream and tree, 

With flowers between, 
Blend with thy song, and seem a part of thee. 



ON THE DEATH OF A PET HARE. 

In dreamless slumber laid 

Beneath the laurel shade, 
Without a care to break thy calm repose, 

Forgetful of the day, 

Though, clad in bright array, 
Over thy tomb a precious light it throws ; 



Forgetful of the night, 

And the pale moon's gentle light, 

And bright dews glittering on herb and tree, 
When the night-bird's song was sweetest, 
And thy timid step the fleetest, 

To charm the heaven or bound over the lee : 



82 ON THE DEATH OF A PET HARE. 

Rest in thy narrow bed, 

No foot profane shall tread, 
Sweet Tiny, on the couch where thou art sleeping ; 

But flowers of every hue 

Shall shed their starry dew 
With tender eyes upon thy slumber peeping. 



Poor Tiny, art thou gone ? 

And shall we make no moan 
That thou so suddenly art pass'd away ? 

We call thee, but in vain, 

Thou wilt not come again 
With lightsome step to gambol and to play. 



Morn from her drowsy bed, 

By mournful visions led, 
Wept o'er the lone couch of the forest-born : 

Eve, with her dewy eyes, 

Came clad in mournful guise, 
Scattering sweet herbs and tender blades of corn : 



O^T THE DEATH OF " MUSIC," A PET BEAGLE. 83 

Noon a dark veil had thrown 
Over the Sun's bright throne, 
That she might weep for thee in loneliness forlorn. 



ON THE DEATH OF " MUSIC," A PET BEAGLE. 

With solemn look old Harkaway 

Sat by the fire. His long ears hung 
Over his face : for well a day 

The knell of sorrow had been rung : 
His partner in the chase was gone ; 

They laid her in her silent bed, 
And he was left to grieve alone — 

"Music," his playmate dear, was dead. 

Fluff, imperturbably sedate, 

Upon the sofa spread his fur, 
And wink'd and blink' d in owlish state, 

And from his place refused to stir. 



84 ON THE DEATH OF " MUSIC," A PET BEAGLE. 

He did not mourn for her — not lie ! 
Fluff was a regular stoic bred ; 

But would he have sat so solemnly- 
Had he not thought of " Music " dead? 

Alas ! poor " Music," she is gone : 

No more her silken ears will rise 
With joy to catch her master's tone : 

No more her deep, expressive eyes 
Will watch, as if in sympathy, 

Her master's face. Hush'd is her tread 
For ever. Thou wilt join with me, 

And drop a tear for " Music" dead. 



TO MY SISTER. 

We had a mother once . . . .we have not now. 
'Twill soon be two years since beneath the sod 
We saw her laid, and wept. Oh ! never tear 
Gush'd forth for sorrow so unmixed and pure. 
Many long months have pass'd, and still I feel 
As then I never thought to feel again. 
4 'The bitterness of death is pass'd," the sting 
Has lost its venom, for we fondly trust 
That she has found a happier home in realms 
Free from all pain and sorrow. Yet the tear 
Has not yet ceased to now : e'en as I write 
My page is traced with Sorrow's dewy pen. 
'Tis a relief to weep for those we love 
When they are pass'd away, to steep in tears 
The memory of that kind devotedness 
Which spread itself around us in the day 



00 TO MY SISTER. 

Of childhood's swift caprice, and had no thought 

For self, no care for anything but us. 

There is a startling suddenness in death, 

Even in its most gradual approach, 

That numbs the heart and turns it into stone. 

And so it was with me when first I saw 

His unfamiliar writing on the wall, 

For, though a stranger's eye could scarcely fail 

Upon that wasted form and drooping cheek 

To recognize the characters of death ; 

And though, amid my dreams, night after night, 

I seemed to hear the death march pealing forth 

Its solemn thunder with sweet undertone 

Of thrilling pipings, and awoke in tears, 

Still, with a clinging hopelessness, I turned 

My back on death. My heart refused to hear 

The warning-voice that whispered from the tomb. 

Yet even hope for me had mourning wings : 

It was not like the hope of other days — 

Bright, swift and silvery. The spell of grief 

Had interwoven darkness in its plumes. 

The morning came, — there was a sound, a stir, 



TO MY SISTER. 87 

A sound of coming steps, and then my door 

Was softly opened ; and from lips that ne'er 

Had uttered word to grieve me I did hear 

The dread intelligence — " Our Mother's dead." 

My heart was dry and parched ; it had no tear : 

I listened, but I wept not, and my thought 

Awhile in painful sullenness refused 

To grasp the stern reality of death. 

And then I wandered forth among the fields, 

Alone, and gazed upon familiar things 

Till they seem'd chang'd and strange — a different hue 

Invested all the memories of home. 

But when I thought that she no more would see 

The green fields, and the cattle idly laid 

In the last glow of Summer ; when I thought, 

As I went home, that she would not be there 

To greet me with her calm and tender smile, 

My heart grew soft — I wept. Her voice of love 

Rang in my ears. I was a child again. 

My Sister, I am loth to break the seal 

That Time hath set upon the silent spring 

Of grief within thy breast, nor would I thus 



88 WE SEE THEE NOT. 

Ransack the past for tears, but that I know 
That hope for thee has still her silver wings, 
Whose brightness is not of the earth : for thou 
Hast looked forward to the time when grief 
Shall be no more, and when, from every eye, 
Tears shall be wiped away, and from the heart 
Hast learn to say, " The Lord gave and the Lord 
Hath taken away, Bless we His holy name." 



WE SEE THEE NOT. 

We see thee not, and yet thou lingerest near, 
As loth to leave us desolate and lone : 

Thou callest to us, but we cannot hear ; 

Thou comfortest, but we cease not to moan. 



Amid the bright flowers of the early Spring 
Softly thou stealest, though by us unseen. 

The lark, fresh risen on his dewy wing, 
Tells of thee only to the meadows green. 



WE SEE THEE NOT. 89 

The calm blue depths ef heaven, the glassy lake, 
The streamlet murmuring o'er its stony bed, 

The grove whose sleep no winds avail to break, 
The silent forest paths untenanted, 



Tell all of thee, but with so still a tone 

We cannot hear their plaintive murmurings, — 

We only feel, when thoughtful and alone, 
The heart thrill faintly as they touch the strings. 



And then thou seem'st to tell of regions blest ; 

Of happiness in lands beyond the grave ; 
Of Edens, where the weary are at rest, 

Before the throne of Him who died to save. 



Alas ! the flowers now fading round thy tomb 
Soon in their loveliness will re-appear — 

Another Spring will see them freshly bloom 
And shed over thy rest their dewy tear, 



90 WE SEE THEE NOT. 

But thou art gone, oh ! never to return, 
Alike to thee the sunshine and the shower, 

The gales that cannot burst thy silent urn, 

Why should they wake anew the thankless flower ? 



And we must follow whither thou art gone, 

Like leaves which Autumn's blast hath withered ; 

Our thoughts are with thee 'neath the churchyard stone, 
And mourn that thou, our dearest hope, art fled. 



But still thy voice comes softly on the gale, 
And lowly whispers we shall meet again 

In happier lands, where there are none to wail, 
Beyond all earthly fears, all earthly pain. 



AUTUMN. 



There was a voice of moaning in the woods, 
A plaintive melody that was sad to hear, 

Such as, when suddenly pale Death intrudes 
Into a family his treacherous spear, 

Floats heavily behind the lingering bier ; 
When Love puts forth its delicate appeal, 

And Sympathy unlocks the frozen tear, 
Breaking Despair's impenetrable seal, 
And while it probes the wound solicitous to heal 



92 AUTUMN. 

Into the forest silently I went, 

Drawn by the spell of that mysterious woe, 
And many hours in lonely wandering spent, 

While still the mournful melodies to flow 
Ceased not, ere I came, thoughtful and slow, 

Into a bower of over-arching shade, 
That seem'd a star -proof canopy to throw 

Over a silver stream that down the glade, 

Hasting with restless step, a murmuring music made. 



More clearly then was heard that mournful strain, 

Until my soul, with an ecstatic bound, 
Outsped the senses and threw off their chain ; 

And, borne on airy wings, disdain' d the ground, 
Searching the fount of that mysterious sound : 

I gazed, with prying eyes, upon the scene, 
Until there seem'd to gather all around 

Glittering mists, and delicate shapes were seen 

Flitting the dark oak stems and silvery birch between : 



93 



Seeni'd it the variou sly- colour' d trees, 

Bathed in the rich floods of the setting sun, 

Beneath the playful fingers of the breeze, 

Took many beauteous forms, which yet were one ; 

Each seem'd to weep a separate woe alone, 
But, as the next took up th£ sorrowing tale, 

You heard the self- same woe, the self -same tone, 
Till one more clearly thus began her wail, 
That floated in sweet sounds adown the shadowy vale :- 



Ah ! woe is me ! unutterable woe ! 

I deck them all in beauty, yet they die — ■ 
My cherish' d ones, my nurselings ! — cease to blow, 

Ye cold, keen winds, brush not too roughly by 
Their balmy couch, let not too loud a sigh 

Dissolve the charm of their serene repose ; 
Lest, terrified beneath Death's withering eye, 

They waste and pine away, as the pale rose 

Shorn of its early bloom when the rude north wind 
blows . 



94 AUTUMN. 

Alas ! how all the leaves from every tree, 

Spite of their glorious hues, still fade and fall, 

As from mere fullness and satiety 

Of loveliness, if such, perchance, may pall. 

But no, of beauty so ethereal 

No weariness can be : the sweetest song 

Some discord may contain : the waterfall 

May lull no more, and the cloy'd ear may long 
For other sounds more sweet, for harps more truly 
' strung ; 



But, in the richness of the year's decay, 

There is a beauty, of no earthly hue : 
Not so divine the Sun, in Summer day, 

Peoples with splendour the ethereal blue. 
But still the rude winds mercilessly strew 

The spoils and wrecks of beauty on the ground, 
To rot and wither, where no eye may view : 

Pale Death his sentry's march is going round; 

He sleepeth not, whene'er a victim may be found. 



OX THE DEATH OF LORD GEORGE BENTINCK. 95 

A blight is on them all — they shrink and wither — 
Beauty but leads them nearer to the tomb : 

They follow amorous of decay. O, whither 

Flee ye, bright children, from your forest home ? 

Death is abroad, no longer careless roam. 
Trust not the breezes that so winningly, 

With poisonous breath, upon the noon-tide come. 

Ah ! woe, woe, woe, for those they've torn from me. — ■ 
She could no more, but sigh'd and wept most piteously. 



ON THE DEATH OF LORD GEORGE BENTINCK. 

When Ministers betray' d their trust, 
Treating their promises as dust ; 
When England's ancient rights and laws 
Were sacrificed to mob- applause, 
And slaves of gold conspired to change 
Whatever limited its range ; 
A voice, unheard before that day, 
Was rais'd, the perilous course to stay ; 



96 ON THE DEATH OE LORD GEORGE BENTINT'K. 

And, breaking through his self-mistrust, 

One spoke, as speak the true and just. 

He said, " those principles maintain 

Which served your present power to gain, 

Give to the workman labour's due, 

Protect the many and the few, 

Who bear the burdens of the State 

Let them have weight proportionate. 

To enterprize and industry 

Hold out a fair security ; 

And prove that to the sons she rears 

England no stepdame's feeling bears, 

Nor gives the stranger and the foe 

The means of her own overthrow. 

So shall we, unimpaired, hand down 

Our country's hardly-earn'd renown ; 

And soar above the threatening blast 

Which thrones and sceptres down hath cast." 

Why is that voice now heard no more r 

Why still that heart, its beatings o'er ? 

What frost has nipt the opening bloom ? 

What envy lurk'd within the tomb ? 



OK THE DEATH OE LORD GEOEGE BENTINCK. 97 

Too keen the fire that burn'd beneath, 
Too sharp the sword for mortal sheath, 
The mind, by stern resolve chain' d down, 
Has rudely rent its cage, and flown ...... 

The dewy fields of Welbeck mourn, 
And through the sighing woods are borne 
Mysterious whisperings of woe : 
The streams in solemn cadence flow. 
The solitary raven croaks 
Afar, 'mid Birkland's wither'd oaks, 
That to the drooping birch-trees nigh 
Mutter their tale of misery. 
A deeper shade is on the fern, 
Earthward the purple heath-bells turn, 
And Thoresby's ancient trees are rent 
As there a storm its rage had spent. 
'Tis not to erring mortals given 
To fathom the decrees of heaven, 
Yet we may mourn that one so great 
Should fall by so untimely fate, 
The true, the noble, and the just, 
So swiftly mingled with the dust. 



98 ON THE DEATH OF 

Yes, we will weep our hope betray' d, 

Our glory cast in endless shade, 

Our country's bulwark overthrown. 

Oh ! raise the monumental stone, 

And deeply let it graven be, 

" England, Lord Bentinck, weeps for thee." 



ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF 
NEWCASTLE. 



Thotj goest not to thy rest like common men, 
Followed by thoughts of private grief alone, 

Our grief the wide world echoes back again, 

Hill answering hill, stream to stream making moan. 



THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE. 99 

And yet not thine the art, by some possess'd, 

Thy thought in ambiguity to fold, 
Trimming thy bark, on either side distress'd, 

As here or there the popular favour roll'd. 



Not thine to bow before the coming storm, 

And lowly cringe when roared the angry blast ; 

Then, reed-like, lift unscath'd a puny form, 
To joy once more, forgetful of the past. 



But like an oak, deep-rooted in the land, 

Which storm may overthrow, or lightning rend ; 

Not less for this do its wide boughs expand, 
Not less for this its stem refuse to bend. 



And as our thought looks onward, 'mid the gloom 
Of coming years, we feel, now thou art gone, 

As though our hopes were buried in thy tomb, 
And law, and right, and honour were o'erthrown. 



CHRISTMAS, 1853. 

Pure be thy robe, O Earth, 

Woof of the driven snow, 
To greet His holy birth, 

Who, sinners born to save, Himself no sin did know. 



Cast off thy leaves and flowers, 

The trappings of thy pride, 
Lay bare thy closest bowers, 

Lest from the Lord of Light a secret sin they hide. 



Green herb or waving corn 

We ask not now of thee — 
Oh ! better thus forlorn 

To welcome Him, who came in great humility. 



CHRISTMAS. 101 

What were thy choicest gifts — 

Gold, frankincense, or myrrh — 
To Him who throughly sifts, 

And not for his own sake accepts the worshipper ? 



With icy fetters bound, 

With grief no eye can see, 
And smart of inward wound, 

Acknowledge His sole right to heal, to soothe, to free* 



Thy wayward streams refrain, 

• Their petulant course subdue. 
Teach them how poor and vain 

The pleasures they unchecked have laboured to pursue. 



Grudge not if now unknown 

Thy virtues seem to lie ; 
What in thy breast is sown 

Stirs not, and is not quickened, except it die. 



102 CHRISTMAS. 

Hush every voice of thine, 

Bird, bee, or trembling reed, 
And swell the song divine, 

Giving to God on high glory for help in need. 



In all thy wide domain 

Let angry passions cease, 
For hark ! the angelic strain 

Proclaims " goodwill to man, on earth eternal peace.' 7 



NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1854. 

There is an orb of darkness rolling on, 
Whose depths I cannot penetrate, or see 

Beyond one line, where the light, dimly thrown, 
Seems like a ray lost in a storm-girt sea. 



Yet in that shadowy circumference 

How much of good or ill in ambush lies ? 

Who does not, sometimes, wish for prescience, 
To wrest from the dread gloom its mysteries ? 



What gives us strength the coming hour to meet, 
Whose joys or sorrows nothing may reveal? 

Perchance th' abyss is yawning at our feet, 
Yet we press on, nor doubt nor tremor feel. 



104 new year's day. 

It is the confidence of mercies past 
That gives security for those to come ; 

Oh ! not in vain has roar'd the angry blast 
Which left unscath'd the pillars of our home. 



Amid the sound of elemental war 

We hear a voice, which whispers, "Peace, be still." 
When almost lost our vessel, from afar 

A beacon light beams towards us on the hill. 



And if it be that pain and sorrow lie 

Within the dark skirts of the coming year, 

There is no reason for despondency, 

For He, who conquer' d pain and death, is near. 



Although no more in visible form reveal' d, 
As when He came a guilty world to save, 

The hungry fed, the sick and palsied heal'd, 
And of its victim robb'd the yawning grave — 



new yeae's day. 105 

Yet not the less we recognize His hand 

In all the gifts His goodness has bestow'd — 

Life, health, abundance — for, at His command, 
Now shone the Sun, and now the waters flowed. 



Or if, as now, perchance, the cultur'd field 
Seems for the labour small return to make, 

A stinted crop unwillingly to yield, 

And thoughts of famine in our hearts to wake ; 



Surely it is His warniug, that in vain 

He has vouchsaf'd his mercies — cold and heat 

Alternate, and the fertilizing rain — 

Which we have fail'd with thankfulness to meet. 



If this be so, let us now make our prayer, 
In this our season of remorse and fear, 

To Him before whose sight all hearts are bare, 
That He will bless, for us, the opening year ; 



106 THE MAUSOLEUM, BELVOIR. 

Drive back rude War into his northern cave, 
Cause pestilence in all our shores to cease, 

With merchandize make glad the sparkling wave, 
And shed around fertility and peace. 



THE MAUSOLEUM, BELVOIR. 



O ! beauty, that within the inanimate form 
Hast made abode, and with a glorious shroud 

Veilest mortality. Past is the storm 

That could efface thy lineaments ; the cloud 

Has spent itself in tears, and the bright gleam 

Sheds on the past a rainbow- coloured stream. 



THE MAUSOLEUM, BELVOIR. 107 

There was a time of sorrow, and the Vale 

Of Belvoir mourned ; peasant, knight, and lord 

Bowed as the bell gave forth its solemn tale, 
And each his own peculiar loss deplored. 

But chiefly was the castle's pride laid low — ■ 

Its high halls fill'd with sorrow's overflow. 



Alas ! that youth nor beauty could avail 
To awe the dark destroyer ! that no charm 

Genius might work to make his legions quail — ■ 
That virtue was too feeble to disarm, — 

And grace, that ne'er had failed before that hour. 

Too elegant to win so stern a power. 



Years have roll'd by, and still her spirit seems 
To move among the woods : the soft west wind 

Stealing among the leaves — 'the wayward gleams 
That, 'mid the woven boughs, a passage find. 

Are all with a calm reverence impress'd, 

As not unconscious of an angel guest, 



108 THE MAUSOLEUM, BELVOIR. 

And now the path grows darker, and the shade 
Of solemn yew-trees makes it joy to see 

A Mausoleum in the open glade, 
Standing alone in its tranquillity, 

And through the unfolded doors you may behold 

A wondrous shape of loveliness untold. 



This is no mortal beauty ; those bright hues 
Are not of earthly portraiture ; the rays 

Of a celestial glory interfuse 

The golden halo that around her plays. 

Sure 'tis a heavenly visitant, whose heart 

Still clings to earth, nor hasteth to depart. 



Slowly she rises, and the saffron cloud 
Melts round her, as beguiling her away ; 

And cherub lips upbraid, almost aloud, 
Her lingering flight and sorrowful delay ; 

And her half-opened lips, and tearful glance, 

A respite beg with seeming utterance. 



THE MAUSOLEUM, BELYOIR. 109 

Oh ! what had earth to keep thee from thy rest ? 

Wealth, beauty, nobleness, the endearing ties 
Of kindred — what are they ? Rather 'twere blest 

To win release from mortal sympathies 
Betimes, and take instead the glorious robe 
Of such as with the Eternal make abode — 



Whence comes the dream of beauty that informs 
The lifeless marble, lending it a glow 

Ideal, heavenly — such as in the forms 

Of saints and angels doth most richly show. 

Take courage, Christian pilgrim ! — Death but makes 

A little spoil when he the body takes. 



ON THE DEATH OF LADY JOHN MANNERS. 

Hast thou not seen the early blooms of Spring, 
By sudden frost, of their sweet hope bereft, 

On the cold ground scatter' d and withering, 
Without one charm of youth or beauty left ? 



Hast thou not known, when roar'd the angry blast, 
What time the woods their Summer foliage wore, 

A stately tree, the glory of the waste, 

Dash'd to the ground, to rise again no more ? 



Hast thou not sighed over a blighted flower, 
Too rashly to the ungenial air exposed, 

When the fierce North launch' d forth its icy shower, 
And the bright petals withered scarce unclosed ? 



ON THE DEATH OF LADY JOHN MANNERS. Ill 

Yet shalt thou fail to measure our distress, 
Who weep the mother and the infant, laid, 

As if in mockery of tenderness, 

Together 'neath the solemn yew-tree's shade. 



We weep the stately tree, in all its pride 

Of youth and beauty, levell'd with the ground ; 

We weep the tender bloom, whose end belied 
Its promise, vainly with rare beauty crown' d. 



We weep a noble Lady, in the spring 

Of hope and joy, cut off by timeless blight ; 

We seek her — but her soul, on unseen wing, 
From this cold clime precipitates its flight. 



We miss the inspiration of that eye, 

Whose earnest glance forbade distrust and fear ; 
That lofty brow so full of majesty, 

That voice so prompt our drooping hearts to cheer, 



112 ON THE DEATH OF LADY JOHN MANNERS. 

That smile for those who, in a changeful age, 
In front of the old landmarks took their stand, 

And raised, against the democratic rage, 

Their battle cry — " God and our native land !" 



In vain — Ah ! surely not in vain the good, 
The noble, and the pure, have lived and died ; 

Their memory will survive the envious flood, 
That baser things o'erwhelmeth in its tide. 



A glory from the earth has pass'd away ; 

A light has faded from the trees and streams ; 
But in the mind's clear firmament the ray 

Of a new star, with heavenly lustre, beams. 



And though thick darkness is around us spread, 
In resignation we will raise our eye, 

And, ceasing vainly to lament the dead, 

See only her bright name, which cannot die. 



I LOVE THEE, GENTLE SPRING. 

I love thee, gentle Spring, for thy soft refreshing showers, 
For thy waving fields so green and thy leafy forest bowers. 
I love thee for the gleams of tenderness that keep 
Their watch over thy children in their noonday sleep. 
I love thy balmy breath, as it wafteth from the lea 
The many mingled scents untasted by the bee. 
I love thee for the hum and dance at eventide 
Of the happy winged things that on the sunbeam glide. 
I love thee for the song of the merry birds so gay, 
The song we heard in childhood, when we were glad as 

they. 
I love the wild dove's note, beneath the lonely shade, 
Which, at intervals, she pours, of her own voice afraid. 
I love thee for the happiness all Nature seems to wear, 
For the serpent stream that rushes forth from his secret 

lair ; 



114 I LOVE THEE, GENTLE SPRING. 

It glides so silverly, like a happy living thing, 

I love its joyous path and its gentle murmuring. 

There is a scent of lilacs, and many a garden bloom 

Is scattering to the winds its delicate perfume. 

On the hedgerows, here and there, a tuft of white is seen, 

A coronet of pearls amid the woven green. 

There's a glow upon the field of daisies ever springing ; 

From every bank its odour the violet is flinging. 

Pale primroses to every stream their hapless love are 

telling, 
In shelter' d dell the hyacinth is into beauty swelling, 
With buttercups and cowslip peeps the meads are golden 

over, 
A feast for bees and butterflies, and every bright- wing' d 

rover. 
O, blessed time of promise, O, joyous dawn of Spring! 
All Nature owns thy power, the birds thy praises sing : 
In silence and in sound, in sunshine and in shade, 
In the breezy meadow grass, in the lonely forest glade, 
We feel thy influence, and recognize thy voice, 
And our hearts beat warm within us, and cry, Rejoice ! 

Rejoice ! 



TO EVENING. 



The reeking earth is weary of the day, 
And pants for rest and sweet oblivion : 

But still awhile the glowing beams delay 

Their flight, and seem their ocean goal to shun. 

Why should they flee, ere they have gazed their fill 
Upon the flowers they woo'd from dewy sleep, 

Upon the dark green forests, and the gleam 
Of Naiad- haunted rill, 

Upon the willows drooping as they weep 

To see their love's sweet image in the stream r 



116 TO EVENING. 

The winds are hush'd, and, cradled in their cells, 
With languid plumes knit o'er their sealed lips, 

Await the breaking of the JEolian spells : 
All but one playful wanderer, that trips 

With gentle murmur o'er the aspen leaves, 
And seems to whisper of repose and rest, 

Telling its soothing tale to every flower 
That tremulously weaves 

Its downy plumes, to guard its fragrant breast 

From the contagion, of the midnight hour. 



O, yet awhile delay, ye shades of night, 

Nor leave the shelter of your sunless caves ; 

Begrudge us not to ponder with delight 
The ceaseless ripple of the ocean waves, 

Sitting alone upon some rock sublime, 

Around whose cavern' d base the billows swell, 

Striving, in vain, their heads to pillow there, 
With melancholy chime 

Murmuring ever that they may not quell 

The restless fever of their wild despair. 



TO EVENING. 117 

Hark ! 'tis the throstle's desultory note, 

Now deep and mellow — now distinct and clear — 

Clear e'en to shrillness, so that, while you note 
The varied tone, discord seems hovering near, 

But for a moment — suddenly 'tis still ; 

And then so low, as scarce to break the spell 

Of silence, flow the soft melodious streams, 
Echoless from the hill, 

Anon into a wilder tone they swell, 

Breaking the mazy web of silver-footed dreams. 



ABSENCE. 

There is a time when earthly hues grow dim, 
And Nature's joy creates a sense of pain; 
When the lone forest -haunts look cold and grim, 
And sadness broods upon the wild bird's strain ; 
The woods have not the mystic loveliness 
They used to wear ; the shadows on the grass 
Less softly fall ; and in still sullenness 
The streamlet seems unto its home to pass. 
The bee rests torpid on the dewy flower, 
The butterfly has furl'd his golden wing, 
The faint winds stirring in the lime-tree bower 
Reluctantly the senseless odours fling. 
The sun less joyfully appears to rise, 
The sun less grandly sinks beneath the main, 
A veil of sorrow overspreads the skies — 
O when will they their wonted smile regain ? 



ABSENCE. 119 

Or are they now as they have ever been ? 

It may be that the mind itself is changed, 

And the glazed eye more sadly scans the scene 

It once with glance of hope so brightly ranged. 

Perchance, if thou wert to return again, 

The gloom would leave the forest paths once more, 

And sorrow come not with the throstle's strain, 

And Nature wear the light she had of yore ; 

The streamlet, ling' ring on its pebbly way, 

Might learn anew its pleasant tale to tell, 

Again might wear the smiles that used to play 

On its crisp' d surface in the noonday dell ; 

And from the sheen of the blue sky above, 

And from the quiet of the earth below, 

Might come the sweet, pure consciousness of love, 

And warm anew the heart whose lamp is burning low. 



THE WEAVER'S BIRD. 

The fire was dull, and cold the room 
Where sat the weaver at his loom, 
And daylight seem'd to strive in vain 
To struggle through the narrow pane ; 
Yet there was light enough to see 
A large amount of poverty. 
In every corner, want and care, 
With anxious ear and leaden stare, 
Watch' d the dull work, with increase slow, 
By the monotonous process grow ; 
And hunger seem'd, with visage hollow, 
Too closely on the thread to follow. 
What was it that oblivion brought 
Of cold and toil and anxious thought, 
And made the hunger's step more slow, 
And bade th' unwilling fabric grow r 



THE WEAVER'S BIRD. 121 

A little bird, perched near the loom, 
Sang cheerily amid the gloom : 
He sang of dewy meads and flowers, 
Of sunny lands and leafy bowers, 
Of breezes trembling in the trees, 
Of silver streams and glittering seas ; 
Hope seem'd to breathe in every note, 
Comfort in every strain to float, 
Poverty and care were dumb, 
Sooth'd was the shuttle's weary hum, 
The weaver's eye saw not the gloom 
That dwelt within that lonely room — 
A lady's hand is on the door, 
A lady's step is on the floor, 
One ever privileg'd to intrude 
Upon the poor man's solitude. 
O, not unwelcome did she come 
Gift-laden to that homeless home. 
Nor was her charity confined 
To alms or words, but both combined. 
She saw the bird beside the loom, 
She saw the hunger of the room, 



122 THE weaver's bird. 

And thought that money would convey 

More comfort than the sweet bird's lay, 

And wonder' d as she heard him sigh, 

And give consent reluctantly. 

Ah ! little dream' d she of the gloom 

That henceforth dwelt within the room. 

Christian, if e'er the tempter's skill 

Urge thee to shun impending ill, 

And ease thy sore inquietude 

By sacrifice of future good ; 

If anguish and consuming care, 

Or hunger lead thee to despair, 

Yet shall this promise comfort give — 

" By bread alone man shall not live." 

God's Word a better life doth show, 

A surer happiness bestow ; 

Its music bids the tempest cease, 

To the vexed spirit whispers peace, 

And, when the thunder's voice is loud, 

Points to the light beyond the cloud, 

Telling of brighter days to come, 

Like that sweet bird beside the loom. 



THE CEMETERY, KENSAL GREEN. 

Is this thy realm, O Death ? amid these bowers 
Hast thou adorned thy everlasting throne ? 

Is it for thee they bloom, those wreathed flowers, 
Beguiling thy deep sadness of its moan ? 



Is it for thee they rise, those sculptur'd urns? 

That form, whose beauty, struggling through the vail 
Of woe, too sad for tears, ceaselessly burns 

On memory's page the sorrow of its tale ? 



I cannot trace thy path, relentless king, 
Or find a vestige of thy secret way, — 

The grass is green as in the birth of Spring ; 
How did it feel thy tread and not decay ? 



124 THE CEMETERY, KENSAE GItEEN. 

I cannot see thy dark and grisly form 

Beneath the twilight of the cedar's shade ; 

Here are no spectral phantasies, no swarm 
Of dire forebodings making us afraid. 



We do not seem to commune with the dead, 
Or hear mysterious whispers from the tomb ; 

The soft turf sounds not hollow to our tread, 

The chequer'd shades are conscious of no gloom. 



No painful thought of desolation creeps 
Over our feelings as we linger here : 

Even the trailing willow, as it weeps, 
Catches a gleam of hope on every tear. 



The cypress shade, though consecrate to death, 
The yew-tree, harp of spirits pass'd away, 

Through which they seem melodiously to breathe 
The treasur'd memories of life's short day, 



THE CEMETERY, KENSAE GREEN. 125 

So beautiful they grow, so deeply green, 

So full of youth, serenity and light, 
They tell no tale of joys that once have been, 

But now have ceased to be : not their' s dull night : 



Not their' s the falling leaf, or leafless bough 
That moans its sorrow to th' autumnal blast ; 

Not their' s the swift decay, that with a glow 
Of splendour mocks the form it comes to waste. 



Alike to them Spring's transitory morn, 
Or Summer's golden ray on wood or hill, 

Autumn's bright footsteps on the waving corn, 
Or Winter's stern approach and breezes chill. 



They know no change, or with the changing hour 
Gain for their fadeless leaf a deeper dye, 

And stand, though storms and cloudy tempests lour, 
Emblems of life and immortality. 



THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER, 1854. 

It was the Sabbath morn, and on the ground 
The weary soldier slept, and dream' d of home ; 

Perchance he seemed to listen to the sound 
Of the sweet Church bells, or a child to roam 



Through well-remembered fields and paths endeared 
By sweet companionship of those he loved ; 

Or, rich in boyish aspiration's reared 

Visions, wherein his spirit largely moved ; 



Unconscious of the wet and piercing cold, 
And yesterday's uncompromising toil, 

And peril and stern vigilance, while roll'd 
The cannon's thunder o'er the darken' d soil. 



THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. 127 

Unconscious of the morning creeping on 

With step inexorable, sure and slow, — 
While, under cover of the damp mist thrown 

Over the vale, stole forth the wily foe. 



Then broke the war-cry from the startled host, 
Then rung the stern command, distinct and clear, 

As each man rushed, undaunted, to his post, 

" Form column, Charge" — they answer with a cheer. 



Full forty thousand strong the Russians came, 
With stimulants excited for the fray : 

Eight thousand guardians of Britannia's fame 
From morn till noon their legions held at bay : 



Serene they stood and firm, biding their time, 
Th' advancing masses quailed beneath their fire, 

Fiercely they strive th' opposing hill to climb, 
But, with thinn'd ranks, tumultuously retire, 



128 THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. 

At length, with hare six thousand gallant men, 
Our brave Allies came, eager for the fight — 

The veil of mist was lifted from the glen, 

And the vast host swell' d on the aching sight - 



Then, like an avalanche loosened from its lair, 
Or, torrent launched adown Velino's steep, 

Or, thunder-bolt cutting the refluent air, 

Or, whirlwind rushing o'er the foaming deep, 



Briton and Gaul, with grandly-stern array, 
Together dash'd upon th' astonish' d foe ; 

The dark mass shakes, the trembling front gives way- 
Uncheck'd the whirlwind's path and torrent's flow. 



From early morn until November's Sun 

Near'd the horizon, raged th' unequal fight — 

Ah ! who can say how that dread day was won ? 
What mighty arm that vast host put to flight ? . 



THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. 129 

It was the Sabbath morn, and everywhere 

In quiet England chimed the sweet Church bells ; 

And youth and age flock' d to the House of Prayer, 
Wooing that land where peace for ever dwells. 



Ah ! not in vain those Soldiers of the Cross 
Their Spiritual weapons used that day — 

Not waste that seeming idleness, not loss 

Those precious moments when men meet to pray. 



In every Church, while raged that fearful strife, 
Hundreds of worshippers were seeking aid 

From Him who holds the keys of death and life, 
Whose power is dreaded and His will obeyed. 



" Thotj only Giver of all Victory, 

King of all Kings, our Succour and our Shield, 
Frustrate the malice of the enemy, 

And guard our armies in the battle-field." 



130 THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. 

So did they pray, at morn and eventide ; 

And, as they prayed, that wasted band received 
Fresh vigour, the fierce onset to abide, 

And every breast with nobler courage heaved. 



Ah ! many a man would gladly draw his sword, 
That burns to leap with succour from its sheath, 

Emulous of noble Cathcart's latest word — 
" At least I die a soldier's honour' d death." 



Let such believe that they a part at home 
Not ineffectual in the strife may bear ; 

And, when perplexity and peril come, 

Spread round our hosts the unseen arms of prayer. 



THE LADY OF THE CROSS, 

The olden times are changed, the day gone by 

For wild adventure and knight-errantry. 

No Paynini now, engaged in desperate fight, 

Falls to the ground before the Red- cross Knight ; 

And gentle Una needs no more defence 

Save her own beauty and her innocence. 

Unbridled Force and lawless Passion yield 

When Virtue brandishes her spotless shield ; 

And Violence, rebuked, doth bend the knee 

Before her glance of conscious majesty. 

But when the shades of night are gathering fast, 

And battle's lurid storm is overpast, 

And gallant men, but now so strong and brave, 

Harass'd with pain, and tossed with fever, rave ; 



132 THE LADY OF THE CROSS. 

When, in the crowded hospital, the gloom 
Recalls the touch of gentle hands at home ; 
And the keen want of something, that can feel, 
And, with considerate kindness, temper zeal, 
Comes o'er the wretched sufferers, as they lie 
Stretched on the rack of hopeless misery ; 
O, then, indeed, is woman's glorious hour 
Strong in her weakness, gentle in her power ! 
She heard the call, and hasten' d to the field, 
Faith at her heart, the Cross upon her shield ; 
In duty's cause she couch' d her quivering lance, 
To the distress' d bearing deliverance, 
And wan looks turn'd to smiles beneath her face, 
That " made a sunshine in the dismal place." 
In vain the hostile influences stay'd 
Her course ; she hasten'd onwards, undismay'd : 
Pride was compell'd to grovel on the plain, 
And Self-indulgence could no 'vantage gain, 
And Fear came hovering round, on darksome wing, 
And Calumny half-showed her treacherous sting, 
And thoughts and feelings urging her to yield, 
But nought availed — The Cross was on her shield. 



PEACE. 

The morning light is on the mountains thrown, 
The morning breeze has o'er the forest blown 
The billowy mist more brightly rolls, and breaks 
On shore, unseen, its foam in silvery flakes. 
On herb and tree still hangs the pearly dew, 
And on all flowers. From the heaven's inmost blue 
Rains down the lark's tumultuous song, and clear 
The throstle's note pierces the atmosphere. 
Still rests the herd within the dewy glade ; 
Still sleeps the flock beneath the beechen shade. 
And now the smoke, blue curling through the trees, 
Betrays the woodman's hut ; and, by degrees, 
As wider grows the landscape, forms are seen 
Amid the furrowed fields or meadows green. 



134 PEACE. 

On sunny banks the young lambs frisk and play, 
And flower-girt children happier e'en than they. 
Free blows the breeze over the wavy corn, 
Scattering sweet perfume round the snowy thorn— 
Along the vale majestically slow 
The heavily-laden vessels come and go, 
While hastes the breeze the flapping sail to fill, 
• Startling the muffled echoes on the hill. 
Now climbs the Sun above the woven pines, 
Inhaling incense from unnumbered shrines ; 
For fragrant Earth, from all her altars, greets 
His loved aj)proach with hecatombs of sweets. 
By labour and the Summer's heat oppressed, 
The weary mower takes his midday rest, 
On the soft grass, beneath the cooling shade, 
At his rude banquet negligently laid. 
Meanwhile his wife, before her cottage door, 
Seated beneath the broad -leaf d sycamore, 
Plies her swift needle, and, now grave, now gay, 
Watches her little children at their play. 
There is no sight or sound in earth or sky 
To mar the universal harmony. 



WAR. 

There is no sweetness in the morning air — 
There is no beauty in the fields and trees : 
The pale sun shineth with a sickly glare, 
No blue is in the sky, no freshness in the breeze. 



There was a cottage on the sunny hill 

That slopes so gently downward to the stream : 
-No cottage now looks down upon the rill, 
But a black ruined mass — Ah ! surely 'tis a dream. 



There was a field of waving yellow corn, 

That rose and fell like a broad sea of gold; 
What iron hail has its rich vesture torn ? 
What desolating storm has darkly o'er it roll'd ? 



136 WAR. 

There was a shady lane, where, overhead, 

Rare glimpses of the summer sky were seen ; 
But chiefly the broad oaks their shadows spread, 
Over the soft short grass, a canopy of green. 



There climbed the rose in beauteous disarray, 

And woodbine overflowing with sweet scent ; 
And there two loving hearts, at close of day, 
The last hours, sadly sweet, before departure spent. 



What blight has ta'en the woodbine and the rose ? 

What thunderbolt has cleft the broad- leaf 'd tree r 
Why wildly weeps that maiden, as she goes 
For water to the spring ? What form is that I see ? 



What form lies stretch' d upon the grassy slope, 

For which she holds the cooling draught in vain ? 
And murmurs to herself, " There is still hope, 
His face is not so pale." 'Twas but the flush of pain. 



137 



How sadly flows that river down the vale ! 

With what unnatural stillness moving on ! 
No boatman's call is heard ; no fluttering sail ; 
No vessel safely moored to its accustomed stone. 



What is it strews the fields with wounded men, 

The farm, the cottage, and the town lays waste ; 
Tears up the corn field, and the leafy glen, 
All commerce stops, and bids the traveller homeward haste : 



Ascend with me this airy mountain's brow, 

And look, with steadfast eye, over the plain ; 
Behind is desolation : would' st thou know 
The cause ? Look on before and the sad secret gain. 



That moving mass that darkens the fair earth, 

And like a dreadful shadow passes on ; 
A sombre cloud, laden with blight and dearth, 
What is it r But a host of men to battle gone. 



138 WAR. 

Hark! 'tis the cannon's roar ; the refluent air 
Holds back its breath in terror and dismay ; 
The vale is wreathed in smoke, whose lurid glare 
Serves but the unseen strife more grandly to portray. 



Ah, me ! The veil is lifted, and I see 
More than imagination could invent 
Of horrors : with what force the living sea 
Wave upon wave rolls on, foaming with rage unspent. 



The crash, the charge, the dying and the dead- 

The war-horse riderless, from the constraint 
Of habit waking to his natural dread — 
I can no more behold — my senses reel and faint. 



O, hide me, Earth ! within thy deepest caves, 

In some primaeval forest's central gloom, 
Or island, girt around with ocean's waves, 
Afar from scenes like these, where War may never come. 



"DELENDA EST CARTHAGO." 139 

England ! may never foeman's foot profane 

Thy quiet valleys and thy meadows green ; 
No battle leave its sanguinary stain ; 
No civil strife arise — God save the Queen ! 



"DELENDA EST CARTHAGO.' 5 

Type of conquest and aggression, 
Let the giant fortress fall ; 

Earth is weary of oppression, 
Delencr est Sebastopol. 



Stone from stone, and tower from tower, 
Let the shatter' d fragments lie, 

Symbols of the doom of power 
Merging into Tyranny. 



140 "DELENDA EST CARTHAGO." 

Rend the battery's serried face, 
Rend the granite blocks in twain, 

Hurl the bastion from its base 
To the level of the plain. 



Scarp and glacis, fort and mound, 
Magazine and arsenal, 

In destruction wide confound- 
In one ruin mingle all. 



Gird the ships with lambent flame, 
Wreathe in smoke the harbour wide ; 

Like a dismal veil, her shame 
Let the lurid vapours hide. 



By the groans of those who died 
Where the Alma darkly flows, . 

Stemming battle's fiercest tide, 
Driving back unnumbered foes — 



"DELENDA EST CARTHAGO." 141 

By that gallant band that sped, 

Like an arrow from the string, 
By resistless impulse led, 

Doom'd, but all unwavering — 



By those twice four thousand brave, 
Who, on Inkermann's rude steep, 

Won a name and honour' d grave, 
And in lap of glory sleep — 



By those much-enduring men, 

Who, through cold and hunger true, 

Bide their time, till, through the glen, 
Rings the word, " Your duty do " — 



Type of conquest and aggression, 
All their voices round thee call, 

Earth is weary of oppression, 
Dele?id f est Sebastopol. 



SUSPENSE. 

This world is woof of light and shade, 

And life is sometimes very drear, 
And makes us with its gloom afraid, 

Its brightness overcast, its sweet flowers nipped and sere. 



If we our destiny could guide, 

No check our onward course would own — 
A stedfast ever -flowing tide, 

A growing shining light upon the mountains thrown. 



But He who better knows than we, 

And works by laws we cannot prove, 
The future in uncertainty 

Has wrapp'd, that we may learn to rest upon His love. 



SUSPENSE. 143 

Who wandering through life's vale of tears 

Has fail'd this lesson there to read ? 

" Anxiety the prize endears — 

y 
Theirs is the keenest joy who with most pains succeed." 



There are who higher than the plain 

Care not adventurous glance to raise, 
Who hope in straitest bounds restrain, 

And seeking nothing high have little scope for praise. 



There are those whose arrogant desire 
Spreads, eagle-like,' its venturous wings, 

From height achieved still soaring higher 

With more of confidence than suits ephemeral things 



But wisdom is with those, whose will 

Doth recognize a mightier power, 
And soaring high and higher still, 

The issue trusts to Him who rules the coming hour. 



144 WHEN MADLY RAVES THE STORM. 

Let England, then, her duty do, 

But not in arrogance or pride, 

To God, and to herself be true — 
v 
And then we need not fear whatever ills betide. 



WHEN MADLY RAVES THE STORM. 

When madly raves the storm, and billowy foam 
Is rudely dash'd against our island home ; 
When icy winds, with melancholy sound, 
Sweep Summer's footsteps from the barren ground ; 
€)r, dancing in inexplicable maze, 
The snow-flakes gather o'er the trackless ways, 
Circling around the bright hearth's ruddy glow, 
Nought reck we of the storm or beating snow, 
But with light laugh, or song, old Winter's frown 
Sweetly beguile, and smooth his wrinkles down. 



WHEN MADLY RATES THE STORM. 145 

But ah ! what thought, like an ill- manner' d guest, 

Chills the warm blood and checks the rising jest. 

Adds fury to the gale, and arms the cold 

With sharper fang and keenness manifold r 

It is the memory of that gallant host, 

Who brave the storm on the Crimean coast — 

That remnant left to suffer or to die 

On the grave-peopled steppes of Tartary. 

And shall those heroes, so sublimely brave, 

Sink, and no hand be raised to help or save ? 

While those who sent them, Freedom's champions, hence 

Look on in imbecile incompetence ! 

Forbid it, England ! let thy voice be heard — 

Safety and honour hang upon the word : — 

Those who their duty cannot, dare not, do, 

Replace with honest men, brave, good and true : 

Demand the man most fitted for the post 

To guide the Senate, or to lead the host : 

Heedless of party claims, and social ties, 

Hereditary tastes and sympathies, 

One who mil think, and act, and legislate. 

For England, only in her glory great : 



146 THE VOICE OF THE PAST. 

Then, and not till then, may we hope to see 
Our brave men taste the fruits of victory, 
And murmurs from their ranks shall cease to come 
Of negligence or impotence at / 



THE VOICE OF THE PAST- 

When alone against a world 
Join'd in dark confederacy, 

England erst her flag unfurl' d 
In the cause of Liberty, 



And the lion race had sent, 
Over sea and over land, 

Many a noble armament, 

Many a brave and gallant band ? 



THE VOICE OP THE PAST. 147 

And, with expectation keen, 

All on tiptoe listening stood ; 
And, with greedy ear, drank in 

News of battle — bad or good ; 



When, in spite of courage shown 

In a hundred fields, the foe 
Seem'd in power vaster grown, 
'And in progress sure, if slow ; 



Then, no wonder, many a man 
From this dread to win release, 

With a craven heart began, 

Here and there, to prate of Peace. 



But the master-mind that sway'd 
England's destinies the while, 

Heard the murmur undismay'd, 
Calmly with a prescient smile. 



148 THE YOICE OF THE PAST. 

And lie said, while from his eye 

Flash' d a withering glance of scorn- 

" Vainly shall those heroes die ? 
Vainly stand their home forlorn ? 



" Peace ! while unaveng'd the blood 
They, for us, so freely shed ! 

Sooner shall the circling flood 
Over all our valleys spread ; 



" Sooner England's sea-girt isle 
Sink beneath the surging waves, 

Than the foe our hearts beguile 
Peace to buy — the peace of slaves, 



" Peace ! a country's holiest word, 
Weak concession cannot buy ; 

We must win it with the sword — 
Priceless prize of victory. 



THE YOICE OF THE PAST. -149 

** England's fame to us descended ; 

Let not future ages say, 
Then was all our glory ended, 

Faded then our pride away. 



" Great we found her, great we'll leave her, 

So God help us in our need ; 
We will never wound or grieve her 

By a faithless word or deed. 



" Nor shall men, by our sad story, 
Vindicate their senseless shame ; 

He who clouds his country's glory 
Not on us shall lay the blame." 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Where is the light of the Summer gone ? 
Where is the wing of the Zephyr flown ? 
Where is the joy of the starry flowers? 
Where the ambrosial dews and showers ? 
Winter and dearth are on field and tree, 
And the icy wind sweeps o'er the stormy sea ; 
This is no season for joy and mirth, 
Let us mingle our tears with the tears of the earth. 



Sunshine and Summer will come again, 
And the flowers return and the gentle rain ; 
But our mirth is not now the mirth that's convey' d 
By transient things as they bloom or fade ; 



CHRISTMAS DAY, 151 

We rejoice with the joy of those who see 
The treasures of immortality, 
Whose hearts are bright with flowers that grow 
When all around is the cold, cold, snow, 
And fruits that hang on each deathless tree 
Fresh from the fields of eternity. 



For the withering wind, with its mortal blast, 
Over the human heart had passed, 
And the leaves of its pride, all damp and sere, 
Lay the sport of th' ungenial atmosphere ; 
And its pleasant pastures of peace no more 
The beautiful hue of contentment wore ; 
And the streams of love, whose gentle sound 
Gladden' d the heart, with ice were bound : 
And the distant lines of hope's golden light 
Were lost in the shades of the gathering night : 
There was no voice of song to express 
The feeling of rapture and thankfulness, # 
For every thought of the soul within 
Lay bound and entranced by the winter of sin. 



152 CHRISTMAS DAY. 

But a voice was heard in the realms above. 

Breath' d by the unseen presence of love, 

Heralding to the astonish' d earth 

The joyful news of the Saviour's birth. 

Then the pulse of Nature began to beat, 

Thaw'd by the all-pervading heat, 

And a thrill to the world's deep centre ran 

Of joy for the rescue of fallen man. 

Seem'd it the breath of Spring had blown, 

Whose dominion the birds and the sweet flowers own, 

So great a change had those tidings wrought — 

Tidings of good with such glory fraught ; 

The torpid heart their sweet influence felt, 

The streams of affection began to melt, 

The buds of desire, by attraction new, 

Higher and higher drawn heavenward grew : 

And the light of hope, like the evening star, 

Gave a foretaste of brighter worlds afar ; 

Peace threw a veil over sins forgiven, 

And purity breathed in the winds of heaven ; 

Hush'd was the cry of oppression and care, 

Lull'd to rest by the peace -breathing accents of prayer, 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 153 



And through every heart 'neath the genial sky 
Streamed the voice of thanksgiving and melody. 



Hail ! Hail ! holy morn, that to us hast given 
Peace upon earth and a hope of heaven. 
Trusting in Him who, in human frame, 
As on this day, and in weakness, came, 
Though the world with sorrows or storms be drear, 
And the stout-hearted fail, we will not fear, 
But with hearts full of joyful amazement sing 
The glory and praise of our new-born King. 



THE NEW YEAR. 

We cannot greet thy coming, New-born Year, 
Without a solemn memory of the past ; 

We cannot hail thy presence without fear, 
In such tumultuous times thy lot is cast. 



How many a noble heart has ceased to beat, 

That glowed with hope when the last year was born ! 

How many a home has one less left to greet, 
With happy- omen' d words, thy natal morn ! 



The good, the true, the earnest, and the brave, 
" After life's fitful fever " calmly sleep ; 

And those, who lov'd them living, to their grave, 
With flowers fresh gather' d, oft return and weep. 



THE NEW YEAR. 155 

Thou didst not know their worth : no page of thine 
Is conscious of their works of love or power, 

Nor may' st thou hope their glory to outshine 
By deeds still waiting the appointed hour. 



Unknown to thee, those who by Alma's wave, 
Weary with fame and victory, fell asleep ; 

And that devoted band, who, vainly brave, 
Cleft the foe's host on Balakiava's steep. 



Unknown to thee, who won the laurel crown, 
When raged at Inkermann th' unequal strife, 

To whom undying glory and renown 

Death gave — a gift more dear to them than life. 



No mercenary band, no hireling race, 

In Freedom's holy cause their swords they drew^ 
And met th' oppressor's legions face to face, 

Firm in themselves, and to their country true, 



156 THE NEW YEAR. 

Let the past keep its trophies — page more bright 
History boasts not. — Bright, but sad, that page. 

On many a home, through gloom of darkest night, 
Those stars look down — grief's precious heritage. 



Thy work remains — the past is as a dream — 
Its noble dead thou canst not now restore ; 

But the rich freight committed to thy stream 
We charge thee bear with honour safe to shore. 



Or, if th' appointed law must be obey'd, 

(For Death will come whether in peaceful bower, 

Or battle-field, and may not be delay' d, 
Or of his prey defrauded for an hour), 



Teach those who mourn their treasures to resign 
To Him who does but in compassion wound, 

And say, "Lord, not my will be done, but Thine — 
Pilgrims on earth with Thee a home they've found." 



SUBMISSION 

The world was dark with sin and shame, 
When, from th' eternal mansions, came 
A Warrior, on whose spotless shield 
This simple legend was anneal' d — 

" Submissior !" 

Lowly His mien, and poor His dress ; 
He had no form or comeliness, 
No beauty that we should desire, 
The legend suited His attire — 

Submissior ! 

Amid the wilderness forlorn. 

With watching, and with fasting worn, 

The Tempter's fury He defied, 

And to the rebel voice replied, 

" Submissior !" 



158 SUBMISSION. 

" If Thou Almighty art, let bread 

From these hard stones forthwith be made?" 

" Man shall not live by bread alone," 

He answer' d, " I this Scripture own, 

Submissior !" 

" Dare something great, Thyself to prove 
The object of preserving love :" 
He said, " I court no needless ill, 
But my allotted work fulfil — 

Submissior !" 

" Bow down to me, and sea and land 
Shall recognize Thy sole command:" 
" Thou Wicked Spirit, hence, begone !" 
He said, " I bow to God alone. 

Submissior !" 

The world was still, and dews of sleep 
The hearts of men began to steep ; 
But He, with mild and patient eye, 
Kept watch in sleepless agony — 

Submissior ! 



SUBMISSION. 159 

He stood before the judgment seat, 
And gave his back to stripes unmeet 
(With myriad Angels standing near, 
To rescue Him from doom severe) — 
Submissior ! 

Upon the cursed tree He hung, 

And men reviled, with scornful tongue : 

" Come down, now, from the Cross ;" but He 

Replied, " Thus gain I victory — 

Submissior !" 



OUR WEDDING DAY. 

More than ten years have sweetly roll'd away 

Since dawn'd the wish'd-for morn, our wedding day. 

And we since then each other's joys have brighten'd, 

With mutual aid each other's burdens lighten' d. 

No single wave of that receding sea 

Would I exclude from my eternity ; 

No single line of that rich-letter'd scroll 

Would I erase from the harmonious whole ; 

No shade condemn, that served but to enhance 

Th' attendant light with more significance ; 

No cloud reject, whose fertilizing rain 

Nurtur'd with kindly discipline the grain ; 

No storm distrust, that made the calm more dear, 

His witness who in calm and storm is near. 



MISS NIGHTINGALE. 161 

For those past years we will together bless 

The source and spring of all our happiness, 

Who strew'cl our path with rosy, sparkling flowers, 

And join'd, with links of love, the hastening hours ; 

And if one little bud on its frail stem 

Faded, un wreath' d in mortal diadem, 

Surely it was but hidden from our sight, 

To bloom in realms of everlasting light. 

And, thus serene and full of faith and love, 

We will the promise of the future prove, 

And recognize more clear a heavenward road, 

That thwarts our will to bring us near to God. 



MISS NIGHTINGALE. 

A captive bird on prison wall, 
Singing its guileless song, 

Has served past pleasures to recall 
The free wild woods among : 



162 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 

So in that prison-house of pain, 
Where misery works its will, 

Gush'd forth, sweet bird, thy soothing strain- 
Woe listen' d, and was still. 



Dark night was o'er the mountains spread, 

Night without moon or star — 
Clouds thickly gathering over head — 
- The thunder's voice afar ; 



But from within the deepest gloom 

A joyous fountain leapt — 
And eyes that sought but for the tomb 

With Hope's sweet anguish wept — 



A joyous fountain of sweet song- 

A gush of melody — 
The murmur of a gentle tongue— 

A woman's sympathy. 



MISS NIGHTINGALE. 163 



Then many a one, who lately pray'd 
For death to ease his pain, 

Look'd on the future undismay'd, 
And thought of home again — ■ 



And those who deem'd it bitter lot 

To fall not in the fight, 
But in the hospital to rot 

Loathing the morrow's light, 



No longer brooded o'er their grief, 
In horror and despair — 

What sorrow could refuse relief 
Which she had come to share ? 



Not in the battle-field alone, 
Not on the blood-red plain, 

Is dauntless heroism shown, 
Not on the bed of pain : 



164 MISS NIGHTINGALE. 

High beats the heart at thought of those, 
Who, with stern might endued, 

The fierce assault of sevenfold foes 
Undauntedly withstood ; 



And those whom neither storm, nor cold, 

Nor hunger, can subdue, 
Nor pain, nor suffering manifold — 

What praise is not their due ? 



But England may with equal pride 

Her self-devotion claim, 
Who to the wounded sufferer's side 

With prompt compassion came. 



Whose love, nor fear, nor weariness, 

Nor horror's tale untold, 
Could quench, nor conscious feebleness 

From duty's call withhold, 



DEATH OF THE EMPEROR. OE RUSSIA. 165 

Oil ! deeds of valour and of might 

May chance forgotten be ; 
But time will robe with richer light 

Her work of charity. 



ON THE DEATH OF THE EMPEROR OF 
RUSSIA. 

Nicholas is dead ! That great Imperial name 
Has ceas'd from the world's action, and become 

An empty breath upon the lip of fame — 
An echo from the silence of the tomb. 



Nicholas is dead ! Aye, tell it forth again ; 

We cannot realize so strange a tale : 
That eagle-eyed and high-aspiring brain 

So suddenly in its fell swoop to fail ! 



166 DEATH OF THE EMPEROR OF RUSSIA. 

Yes, he who murdered Peace, the innocent Peace, 
Smiling so sweetly on her flowery bed, 

Who made her pretty arts and wiles to cease — 
Nicholas, the murderer of Peace — is dead ! 



It is not meet to strike a helpless foe, 
Or sing exulting pseans o'er his grave : 

Not ours the hand that laid th' oppressor low, 
Not ours the voice to mock the fallen brave. 



Ah ! me, from what height fall'n ! But yesterday, 
In all the world what man so great as he ? 

Now passive, helpless, to the common clay 
Return' d by law of stern mortality ! 



Despot of lands and nations infinite, 

And countless hosts that moved but at his will, 
He climb' d serenely on from height to height, 

Until he deemed himself invincible. 



DEATH OF THE EMPEROR OF RUSSIA. 167 

But, in his plentitude of pride and power, 
The summons came which none may disobey ; 

And all his glory faded, like a flower 

Cut from its stem beneath the blaze of day. 



Aye, as befals the lilies of the field, 

Whose splendour far surpasses that of kings, 

Death in the regal purple lies conceal' d, 

And o'er the glittering throne his shadow fling 



Awake, O Earth ! cast off thy chain, be free ! 

The spoiler of the nations is no more ! 
The vales and mountain-shrines of Liberty, 

And ocean waves upon the echoing shore ; 



The mighty rivers, and swift streams that leap 
Among the hills, forest, and field, and plain, 

Call to each other, waking from their sleep, 
And thus together raise their joyful strain : 



168 DEATH OF THE EMPEKOE OF RUSSIA. 

" How art thou fallen from thy starry throne, 
How art thou now laid even with the ground, 

That did'st afflict the nations, and alone 

Stretch forth thy rule to earth's remotest bound . 



"Thou said'st I will ascend up into heaven, 
And raise my throne above the stars of God ; 

But, lo ! the column of thy pride is riven, 
And Death's rude foot has on thy glory trod. 



" The weary Earth shall rest now thou art gone, 
And lurid War's tumultuous clamour cease — 

The storm is overpast — Spring's breath has blown, 
The leaves return — return again, Peace ! " 



SWEET PEAS. 

" I send some sweet peas gathered on the field of Inkermann." 
— Sevastopol, May 12. 

Extract from a letter in the " Times." 

Six months ago, and, ere the morning broke, 
Ravine and steep were wreath'd in fire and smoke ; 
And War, from garners of heroic deed, 
Scatter' d, with lavish hand, his priceless seed ; 
Which, falling free on this blood- water' d plain, 
Hath proudly rear'd its crop of golden grain, 
Ripe for the triumph of the harvest-home, 
When to Fame's shrine the votive first-fruits come. 



And now the teaming Earth puts forth anew 
Her panoply of flowers — by that red dew 
Untarnish'd ; — nay, to higher temperament 
In Nature's secret lab'ratory blent, 
As when the pious workman, in his zeal, 
In holy water dips the glowing steel. 



170 SWEET PEAS. 

In every quiet nook among the hills, 
In every crevice worn by winter rills, 
On every crag where raged that desperate fight, 
E'en where the cannon thunder' d from the height, 
Earth, like an infant from its noonday rest, 
By former griefs and fears no more distress' d, 
With rosy smile dimpling her tranquil face, 
Spreads forth her arms to meet the Sun's embrace. 



Ye, too, that mourn the unreturning brave, 
Who won a glorious name and honour' d grave 
Where Nature now, as if defying Death, 
With radiant hues of health and fragrant breath, 
Steals o'er the flowery turf wherein they lie 
And tells of life and immortality, 
No longer mourn — Death's cruel frost is gone, 
With all its storms ; — their glory lives alone, 
And from beneath their far Crimean tomb 
Shall still retain the freshness of its bloom. 



PRUSSIA. 

I saw a mighty river flowing down 

Through wooded banks majestically strong, 

By fertile meadow and by populous town, 
Diffusing plenty as it moved along. 



I saw it meet the swelling ocean tide, 

And the white-crested waves were dashing high, 
Backward and forward swayed the current wide, 

Disputing every foot the victory. 



Now to their depths the beaten waves withdrew, 
And the broad river, conquering, onward roll'd ; 

Now from their depths, with might and fury new, 
Press'd on the powers of ocean uncontroll'd. 



172 , PRUSSIA. 

But, lo ! while grandly raged the desperate strife, 
And strength and resolution put to test, 

(As when they meet who, honour more than life 
Regarding, knightly prowess manifest,) 



Between th' opposing waters, by their waste, 
Fattening and thriving, rose, obscure and mean, 

A slimy sand-bank, by no prowess graced, 
Whose sole ambition was to thrive unseen. 



Resort of all things refuse and impure, 
Ruin of noble vessels, to their doom 

By show of quiet subtle to allure, 

And then absorb them in ignoble gloom. 



She seem'd to say, while thrill' d th' admiring mind, 
As flash met flash, glory on glory rose, 

" Ah ! miserable dupes, and poor, and blind, 
To rush uncall'd into a thousand woes ! 



173 



" Wliile I, thus living undisturb'd, at rest, 
Wealth and prosperity accumulate, 

Enjoying what I have, and too much blest 
To care for what may be the morrow's fate ; 



" No gain to me that law and right prevail, 
No loss if tyranny should work its will. 

Self-interest is my sword and coat of mail, 
I will not fight, but fatten and be still." 



O for a dredger's hand to move the shoal 
Of slime and mud that bars the river's way ! 

O for a breath of honour to unroll 

The flag that dares not in the free winds play ! 



O for some sense of shame, or memory 

Of glorious deeds wrought in the days of old, 

To make a freeman die rather than be 

A despot's tool, or cringing slave of gold ! 



THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL. 

The din of War was hush'd at noon : 

No echo came from Mount Saponne : 

The bomb and crash of guns was still 

On Chapman's Trench and Gordon's Hill; 

And the foe, with unwearied care, 

Began the ruins to repair, 

And stop the breaches yawning wide 

In the Malakhoff's long-battered side, 

As if the storm were overpast, 

And this brief lull till night would last. 

How long ? The rockets high in air 

The captured Malakhoff declare, 

And simultaneously began 

The desperate fight in the Redan. 

Alas ! for those devoted few 

Whose shatter'd forms its floor bestrew, 



THE FALL OF SEBAST0P0L. 175 

Who, unsupported in their need, 

With countless wounds exhausted bleed — ■ 

The lion in the hunter's net 

Each by a hundred foes beset. 

But, by the flash of Windham's eye, 

They know that not in vain they die, 

Nor unavenged, for that dread day 

Of the pure gold has made assay, 

And prov'd the steel which ceaseless stroke 

And keenest test nor dull'd nor broke. 

Sternly the baffled warriors wait 

The morning's dawn, but envious fate 

Marr'd their resolve to do or die, 

And gave them bloodless victory. 

The Sun's retiring orb looked down 

On bristling fort and peopled town, 

The Sun's returning splendour broke 

On desolation, fire and smoke ; 

On tower and bastion overthrown, 

On granite walls to splinters blown, 

On mines exploding, buildings rent 

In twain, from base to battlement, 



176 THE FALL 0E SEEASTOPOL. 

And forts where only fear was guard, 

The conquered city's watch and ward. 

Thus fell Sebastopol, but we 

Say not it was our victory : 

A mightier hand than ours has wrought, 

A mightier power for us has fought. 

Therefore to Him be honour given 

Who rules the things of earth and heaven ; 

And let us joy in His defence 

Whose succour is Omnipotence ; 

And greater satisfaction feel 

Than if our own unaided steel 

Through the foe's ranks had cleft a road — 

'Tis good to owe success to God. 



FINIS. 



PEINTED AT THE "ESSEX A>D WEST SUFFOLK GAZETTE" OFFICE, COLCHESTER. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



014 526 924 6 fl 



